


The Red Wolf Rises

by EnemyOfInnocence



Series: The Red Wolf Reigns [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Daenerys Targaryen Deserves Better, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Daenerys Targaryen Lives, Dark Daenerys Targaryen, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Porn, Emotional Sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family Secrets, Forbidden Love, Jaime & other characters live bc I say so, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Minor Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Minor Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Mutual Pining, POV Sansa Stark, POV Tyrion Lannister, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-series fix-it, Pregnancy, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Schemes & intrigue, Tyrion saved Sansa in the crypt, Tyrion's hurt in the beginning, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unresolved Sexual Tension, age gap, complicated relationship, screw d&d, season 8 fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 104,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23539018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnemyOfInnocence/pseuds/EnemyOfInnocence
Summary: — — — — — — —"Why would you save me?" Sansa whispered, holding his hand down. The small gesture not only ricocheted tight, pinching sparks all over his body, but she'd also helped settle him a little.Life hadn't ever been fair for the Halfman, so it seemed appropriate for him to revel under the splendor of an inconvenient and unexpected truth seconds before his life would surely end. Though he was a man of knowledge and reason, Tyrion had always drowned in a deluge of desperation and loneliness, a need to be loved as ardently as he loved things he could never have.— — — — — — —Three dangerous words whispered at the end of the world between two familiar souls caught on two separate sides of a war that could destroy Westeros caught in a web of chaotic secrets, suspicion, and stolen kisses ignite a new war between Houses.*Season 8 fix-it fic*We're going to rewrite what could (and should) have been.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Tyrion Lannister & Sansa Stark, Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Series: The Red Wolf Reigns [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019940
Comments: 183
Kudos: 241





	1. Start A War

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have no business starting a brand new story, but I'm in the middle of reworking both my Star Wars saga fic and the Edge of War's End (which I'll be updating on this site to catch you all up).
> 
> I'm so in love with how this story is heading. I already have 5 chapters written and ready to be released. I'll try to update every 3-5 days at a maximum!
> 
> This is hardcore pining/romance, so saddle up!

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_Winterfell_

Sansa

* * *

“Lady Stark.” The dragon queen lifted a brow and joined her hands together at her hips. Drowning in her white furs in a room crowded with the highest ranking people in her camp and the North who wore blacks or tattered, dreary navys, Daenerys pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet. Am I to assume you’re in agreement with our plan?”

Nothing on Sansa’s face budged, features as frozen as the dirty, bloodied snow outside the castle walls. A master of control, the Lady of Winterfell’s cold gaze dropped to the large table in the council chamber. The plan made sense for simple minds, but even a novice of battle strategy could see the gaping holes and the inevitable catastrophic loss the dragon queen, the North, and the people of King’s Landing would suffer. Daenerys, as far as the leader of a rebellion went, was going into this battle blind. Everyone who could make a difference and appeal to her sensibilities or what little compassion the foreign queen had was stuck abed nursing life-altering injuries from the battle they’d endured the night before. What was left of the Dothraki, the Unsullied, and the Northmen all rallied together to gather the bodies of their fallen comrades, so they could burn the bodies and carry out a final, proper mass memorial to honor their sacrifice.

“It’s a pretty plan, Your Grace.” Sansa lifted her chin, allowing her extra height as she straightened her spine, hands tangled behind her. “...in theory.”

“In theory?” Jon sighed, rolling his shoulders. The bulk of the people in the room hadn’t rested in more than a day. He stepped closer to her and gestured to the table in front of them. “Sansa, how would you conduct the battle, then? You’re no expert war strategist.”

The deliberate disobedience the Lady of Winterfell weaponized against the brother she’d once thought to be her savior thawed her cool expression enough to permit a small grin to grow on her mouth. However, it was his dragon queen who interrupted him from across the room.

“You will let her speak, Jon,” the queen regarded her lover, Sansa’s own brother, about as kindly as Joffrey once regarded animals. Steering her focus back to the copper haired lady, she nodded. “If there is a better option that would help turn the tides of the upcoming battle, I should think we ought to hear it. I’ve lost one of my children and more than half of my army and people for your cause.”

“You do not know Cersei, Your Grace.” Varys and a few other men squirmed, all remaining silent. Speaking out against a tumultuous queen was not wise, but Sansa could afford a bit of risk with Arya, her unlikely ally, standing at her side. “Neither does your Hand.”

Daenerys was not her preferred option for a ruler. The woman was too unpredictable. Power fed her preordained arrogance to the point of absurdity; however, Jon made it abundantly clear he would not be king, his natural right be damned. Learning of her brother’s true heritage had almost made this whole ordeal worse. The longer the dragon queen stayed in Winterfell, the more poisoned her once strong relationship with him became. It was sad. She’d always mourn the trust she’d once established with the man. 

“And you do?”

After a few seconds, Sansa stepped to the table and dragged her eyes over each person until she anchored her attention back to the Targaryen queen. “I know that the only person in the whole world designed to love Cersei left her side to fight for the North. I know she loved her children--that without them, she’s as dangerous as both of your remaining dragons. She has the right family name paired with the madness of your father.”

“With all due respect, Lady Stark, your experience with the false queen ended once you fled King’s Landing with Littlefinger, so says my Hand.”

Sansa politely smiled. “With all due respect, Your Grace, your only experience with the woman is mostly ill-advised hearsay.”

“I will forgive your insults so far, Sansa.” Looking over to Jon, Daenerys shot a hand out between them, drawing her head back as she waited for a reply.

“Your forgiveness is not needed, Your Grace. I merely believe I have a better alternative.”

Daenerys leaned over the table, palms flattening as she sighed. “What do you propose, Lady Sansa?”

“The chances of winning a battle against Cersei or King’s Landing are slim to none without suffering tremendous casualties. Where we have less than half of our combined forces, she’ll have an entire army fresh and ready to fight all our remaining tired soldiers. Not to mention all the wildfire still underneath unknown parts of the city,” Sansa ignored Jon’s groans and regarded her sister before sliding her gaze back on the dragon queen. “In order for you to secure and maintain your control over the iron throne, you’ll require at least the troops remaining. Instead of risking your whole army, I suggest we send one.”

“One battalion?” Varys asked, sending her an unreadable look. 

“One person.”

Daenerys bit her lip. “And you propose?”

Arya stepped forward, hand resting on the hilt of Needle. An easy grin flopped over her lips until she angled her head and slipped her arm in Sansa’s elbow. “Me.”

Jon pried the two sisters apart, back to Arya and scowling at Sansa. “Over my dead body.”

“You will be dead if you march or sail on King’s Landing.” Arya laughed. “Stark men do not fare well when they travel south.” Shifting between her siblings, she resumed her place at Sansa’s side. “Luckily, Stark women find a way to manage.”

“Jon, she alone defeated the Night King, saving Theon Greyjoy and Bran. Cersei Lannister is safe in the Red Keep. Innocent people will burn if a battle ensues,” Sansa said, all but forgetting Daenerys Stormborn across the crowded room.

“I didn’t realize you cared about the people in King’s Landing so much.”

“I care only about the Northern men you’d send to their slaughter,” she admitted. “King’s Landing is honestly of no consequence to me.”

Daenerys cleared her throat. “How could a single person kill Cersei with the Mountain guarding her at all times? Not to mention all the Queensguard stalking her shadow…”

Lady Stark regarded Daenerys. “A wise, terrible friend once told me that one man can be worth ten thousand.”

Varys chuckled, his hands revealing from the pocket at his hips. He was possibly the only person in the room Sansa could not read well. Sometimes, it bothered her that someone else could possibly best her. “Sounds like a very wise friend, indeed.”

“I had Arya kill him when he was least expecting it for the unspeakable schemes he puppeted that led to the death of nearly my entire family.”

“Subterfuge...you’d ask me to risk my crown, my birthright, and my future on this plan of yours?” the queen asked, muttering something underneath her breath.

“So many people—they risk so little. They spend their lives avoiding danger. And then they die.” The words left her chest hollow and throat thick with emotion that didn’t reach her eyes. Sansa hated Petyr Baelish. He’d ruined her innocence long before Ramsay carved it from her body. Meticulous, calculated maneuvers, slowly over a long stretch of time, was how Littlefinger had pilfered power from those around him. As much as she detested who he made her to be, there was merit in his strategy, though weaponizing it thrust you into a field flooded with wildfire under a thunderstorm. You had to be quick to dodge the strikes and explosive fallout, or you’d collapse under your own misfortune or weakness. “Wouldn’t you risk everything to get what you want?”

“I’ve risked a great deal to come this far, Lady Stark.”

The pause was deliberate, necessary as Sansa took stock of all the possible replies to the foreign queen. As the Lady of Winterfell tinkered together the perfect response, she noticed a dangerous lethality brewing in the stormy violet eyes across the table. This queen thought, at least for a fraction of a moment, about how she could kill Sansa. She couldn’t say anything to fertilize the garden of dark thoughts and paranoia seeding in this queen’s mind. The look of death was something that, by now, she was rather an expert in recognizing. Afterall, she was the once jaded Lady Lannister and the once tortured Lady Bolton. It was the same look that she’d also employed when Ramsay had left her bed during the day to sink his teeth into other victims. Plotting his death had shortly become the only thing she’d done to keep sane.

“If House Stark could be so lucky, I imagine we’ll one day be family, Your Grace. I’m sure you can understand my need to protect my people and what little family I have left standing. I risked my life when I trusted Arya to kill Littlefinger. She will not fail you, either.” 

Maybe in a different world--a better world--Jon woke up from the spell she’d casted over him and assumed his rightful place on the iron throne. But they didn’t live in that world. Jon Snow was half Targaryen, half Stark. The most important blood coursing through him was of Lyanna Stark, the aunt she’d never know. The time to exploit this information was not now. Perhaps it never would be. Sansa would never stand against Daenerys if she could be a decent ruler. Once a child grew in her belly, though, no harm would come to family. Daenerys, however, couldn’t be family in her current unpredictable state. Tyrion not only believed and feared in this woman. He loved her. A man like him in love was almost a kiss of doom for the world, shown in the many miscalculations made in the lead up to their Northern arrival. Likely in the name of keeping his queen, not her cause, safe. But, for better or worse, Sansa trusted him. She would continue doing so, until he gave her reason not to.

“Cersei won’t expect an assassin when you’re known for your dragons.” Bringing her arms behind her, The Lady of Winterfell added, “She thinks, much like Tyrion and you believed, an army marches south. I suggest you do. People will send reports of your troops to her. Let her think her walls will protect her for a time. My sister knows how to sneak into the Red Keep. March south, but don’t go to King’s Landing. That way you’ll be in a position to take over the city with your dragons holding the bulk of her forces back. Without a queen to rally behind, most of the people are hungry and afraid and will bend the knee. Let the few naysayers find their way into dragonfire if you must. Taking the city would be easy for the Mother of Dragons.”

Jorah, the Dragon Queen’s most trusted advisor, groaned, limping his way to her side. Like many, he’d suffered a nasty wound; but, his was not lethal. “Your Grace, I believe this plan is the best option. Lady Stark is right. If we’re to rule over the kingdoms, we’ll need an army to subjugate your remaining enemies and instill a prosperous peace. We should not risk your children anymore than we have to.”

The Dragon Queen narrowed her eyes at Sansa. “You’d risk your sister’s life for my claim on the iron throne?”

“Nobody wants to see Cersei Lannister’s throat cut more than House Stark.” Nothing on the Lady of Winterfell’s face thawed enough to budge. “The North remembers, Your Grace. You said you redirected your focus on the North because of my brother. It’s time we repay your kindness. With interest.”

Daenerys stared between Arya and Sansa for a moment. Her features went tight as she swallowed, sighing as she nodded. Her eyes swept the room, but it was Jon she anchored her gaze. “Let the Last War begin.”


	2. Elastic Heart

* * *

**Chapter 2**

_Winterfell_

Sansa

* * *

“It’s finally going to happen, Sansa,” Arya said in front of the fire, slouching in her chair to press her palms toward the hearth. Her younger sister looked worse for wear. A black and blue welt swelled her left eye closed, and her throat bore the brunt of the scrapes and bruises tearing her skin. A thick, open slash assumed the line of her high cheekbone. “I still can’t believe you actually told her our plan.”

The Lady of Winterfell’s mouth twitched, her compromise for a smirk. The fire snapped at her feet. “Sometimes we don’t get a say in the people we need to see the change we want to see in the world.”

“I could just cut her throat and add her face to my small collection.”

Sansa tensed in the uncomfortable chair, chin touching her shoulder as she inspected the beds behind them. Those in the room were not awake. The healers said they’d be out for an unknown amount of time. All the private rooms were occupied by the higher ranking member of the Dragon Queen’s envoy. They’d found a larger guest room to throw the most important people wounded to ease the strain on the healers running around the castle. The bulk of them perished in the crypts, sadly. Sansa took stock of every unconscious body in all the beds rearranged in the room. Brienne, Jaime Lannister, Theon, and Tyrion lay quiet. Jorah had been able to leave his sickbed prior to the small council meeting. He was ever the lovesick dog waiting for scraps at the foreign queen’s heels. He was a pathetic example of a Northman.

“You know that’s treason, Arya. We have to be careful around whom we speak,” she whispered, eyes anchoring on Theon. A smile bloomed on her mouth as her eyes relaxed. Slipping her cool gaze back to her sister, Sansa twitched her brows together. “I could not suffer another loss in our pack.”

A soft chuckle stole Sansa’s attention. Arya stared only at the fire. “When I infiltrated the Twins to kill Walder Frey and his sons, I pictured all the ways I could do it.” A pretty grin stretched her lips as her eyes reflected the color of the flickering fire. “They sewed Robb’s body to his direwolf’s head and cut mother’s throat, letting the river decide where she rests in death. A bloody feast in kind seemed the best choice, but I couldn’t stop there. I dismembered his sons and fed them to Old Walder before I cut his throat and held him, so he’d bleed out and have to endure the pain for as long as possible.” Arya reached for Sansa before her sister could stand or turn away. Her hesitant eyes softened when she regarded her sister. “I was there that night, Sansa. The Hound got me there to be with mother and Robb, but we were too late.” Neither sister cried. Tears would not save their family. “I used to think you were stupid, nothing more than the silly girl who whined to mother about everything and dreamed of handsome princes coming to Winterfell to save you.”

“I was that girl, but she’s gone now.” Sansa sealed her hand over her sister’s and offered her a sad smile. “Father wasn’t the only Stark Joffrey killed that day.”

“Mother wouldn’t recognize us now. We’ve all become something else, just like Bran.”

“I believe she’d find a way to understand us. Perhaps she’d still dislike Jon...”

A soft, growing chuckle echoed around the larger guest room until Sansa looked at her sister and joined in for a moment of unbridled fun. She was allowed that, right? Sometimes, it felt wrong to smile and laugh in a world where her family had to die. Especially Rickon. He’d been too young to have a real chance in the game. The lady’s laughter died.

“Can you imagine her seeing you name him king in the North?” Arya wiped a stray tear from her cheek and sniffled as she also stopped laughing. “She would be in hysterics!”

“The bastard of Winterfell...a king. I’m not sure what could be more scandalous to her…”

Arya bit her lip, sighing. “I fucked Gendry before the battle last night.”

“What?” Sansa laughed, the noise echoing across the room. Shaking her head, the Lady of Winterfell bit the inside of her cheek. “H-How was it?”

“I see why the Imp made a big fuss of it before he sold his love to the Dragon Queen.” Arya shared her sister’s laughter until they both settled.

“Don’t call him that, Arya. Tyrion was always kind to me,” Sansa said, tired of repeating the same line. Instead, she wished everyone could just look at him and see the man for who he was. He made mistakes, sure, but people almost held him accountable for all the world’s sins. When he was wrong, no amount of grace was spared to him. Tyrion learned from his blunders. Was it because he was a dwarf that people expected him to overcompensate for what a normal man could provide? Perhaps she simply overthought the matter. 

She readjusted in her seat. “It felt like nothing I imagined, though. I can’t wait to do it again before I leave.”

“And it was nothing like the songs I’d heard, either. The girls of King’s Landing spoke of magic and moonlight when I was promised to Joffrey...before I knew what he was. When I became Lady Lannister, they said, ‘How could the halfman climb so far North?’ The bored girls at court said many more things about us,” the lady described, hating how she still felt the thin southern fabrics swish against her skin.

Silence settled. Both Stark girls stared at the fire. From somewhere in the same part of the castle, distant footsteps echoed, carrying into the guest room as Sansa’s mind travelled to the exact room he’d kept her in. It wasn’t far from this suite. All she had to do was round two corners: make one left, follow the hall until she reached the end table and a split in the corridor, where the final turn was. To many who hadn’t known her history or her dead husband’s cruelty, the fact that she’d prefer taking a long detour when she could simply traverse through that part of the castle to reach others more quickly seemed odd. 

If she listened closely enough, Sansa could hear her own screams from that direction. Gasping, Ramsay’s face flashed in her mind. Bile rose in her throat when he grinned. A shiver rocked her spine, and to block a scream from bursting from her chest, Sansa reached for a log and tossed it into the blazing fire. Hatred was a concept she could understand when she was young, but it had only been a simple idea, then. Now, it was as real and tangible as her hair or her fingers.

“Ramsay Bolton made Joffrey look like a saint sent by the Old Gods and the New. Add in the fact…” The Lady of Winterfell sighed, slackening in her chair and gripping her black gown.

“Sansa, you can tell me anything.”

Biting her lip, Lady Stark nodded, fidgeting with her long copper locks and staring into the fire. “He made Theon watch him take me like a hound takes a bitch. A few times, he had Theon strip me down and cut me. Once, he was instructed to...touch my body; however, he didn’t get very far before Ramsay decided that I was his alone...He told me if I was going to hate or love anyone, it should be my husband. He wanted to own every part of me.”

Arya readjusted in her seat and reached her hand, resting it on Sansa’s knee. Her sister spared a glare to Theon. She knew what her sister saw: a traitor of House Stark. It’s what they all saw. However, Theon Greyjoy was her brother, a part of her family and her name. Now and always. Nobody had to like it. They didn’t need to accept it. Her throat clogged as she choked on a thick current of emotion lodged in her chest. When was Theon waking up? There was so much she wanted to talk about.

“He wasn’t Theon, then, Arya. He was someone else. Ramsay was the type of man who...invented new souls in existing bodies, eradicating you until none of you was left. I will never utter the name Ramsay gave him because he’s dead. Theon Greyjoy saved me. We were almost caught, but Lady Brienne and Podrick saved us. Once he knew I was safe, he went back to his sister. I never thought I’d see him again.”

“Sansa, you’re the smartest, strongest person I’ve ever met,” Arya whispered. Sansa pressed her hand on her sister’s and gave her a small smirk. “I told Jon the same thing because he needs to see you as more than a lady. Perhaps doing so helps him cope with the fact that you’re as damaged as all of us, if not more. Bran’s all but gone, but you don’t look the part of a broken, war-hardened warrior. I know he blames himself for what happened to you.”

“I thought our differences were more fragile than the bond we forged since Brienne took me to Castle Black, but I suppose a pair of fire-resistant breasts was all that was needed to stomp that to death.”

“Jon’s confused. You know that. He loves you, but he fears you, too. You spent a great deal of time in the company of bad, cunning people. You were forged from the fires of our enemies. What’s worse, you don’t look like someone who could be dangerous. That makes you twice as dangerous to men. You know the rules of a game most of them wouldn’t get if it were written on their balls.”

“I can’t help the journey that gave me my life. Nor will I apologize for any of it.”

Arya squinted, shoving her pursed lips to one side and reworking her argument. “Jon’s about as black and white as a man gets. When he sees me, I have my sword, a physical object he sees when we spar. To evade it, all he has to do is keep an eye out and block it with Longclaw. Your mind? How can he fight something he cannot see? It was a quiet schemer who started this mess in the first place.”

Sansa closed her eyes, easily slipping into a memory. Littlefinger stood next to her on the boat right after she’d left the capital. His voice smoothed over her, comforting her in a world without a father and a mother. None of her brothers were coming for her. Rescue and safety sewed through the fabric of Baelish’s soul in an instant, and she clutched onto the flimsy string for dear life. This man had done what no one in her family could do. 

“Money buys a man's silence for a time. A bolt in the heart buys it forever,” she said. The words spilled from her mouth before she could stop them.

“Why do you do that? Those are the words of the man who stole our family...”

“This family is the only thing I give a damn about, Arya. The North is ours, yet here we are forced to bend the knee to a foreign queen with dragons. My mind should be the least of our concern...”

“You’re right, Sansa,” Arya whispered. Swallowing, she parted her lips and searched the floor for her reply. “Sometimes it feels like _we’re_ the last of the Stark family.”

“You hated me growing up, yet you’ve all but sworn your unyielding loyalty to me.”

“Because you’re the future of our house, Sansa.” Arya chuckled, opting to keep quiet as she readjusted in her seat. “The men of this family haven’t put our House first in a long time. You? You married a monster and shut his eyes forever to reclaim Winterfell.”

“I had help.”

“Jon can win all the battles he wishes, but it was your victory. Don’t let anyone take that away from you,” her sister mumbled, inspecting her nails for dirt. “You don’t let silly things like love stand in the way of your loyalty. Instead, you manufacture your own potent blend of loyalty and duty that somehow translates to love of our name and home. You’re able to love without tossing aside your priorities and responsibilities. To you, love, loyalty, and duty are one in the same.”

“You speak of love as if it’s only for things like family, home, and creed.”

Scratching her cheek, Arya nodded. “Love for anything else is for peacetime. And I, at least, will never be at peace.”

“So I’m not allowed to fall in love?” Sansa laughed. Not that she seriously considered it possible for her, knowing her sister demanded that it be off the table completely made her eye twitch.

“You’re the smartest Stark. You’re clever enough to, one day, find someone who won’t ask you to set aside your name or duty to Winterfell and family. That someone may be the great love you dreamt of as a girl. You of all people deserve it, Sansa.”

“I can scarcely picture a man suited for someone like me.”

“He’s out there. Somewhere, I’m sure. He’ll sweep you away or whatever the stupid songs sing about. He’ll show you what _it's_ supposed to be like at a minimum, but he will treat you like the Lady you are.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever enjoy the marriage bed. I just don’t see myself falling back into it by choice...”

“Don’t say that. You let Bolton win if you honestly believe that.”

Sansa wasn’t particularly comfortable with the subject, but it was nice having someone by her side of her own blood and sex. She didn’t have the heart to steer the conversation elsewhere when this one was the most heartfelt one she’d ever shared with her eccentric sister. “Sometimes, I wish Tyrion would have just taken me on our wedding night. I figure I might have found a way to enjoy it, given the rumors of his wealth of experience on the matter. I could have had something to use to forget how it was with him...”

“Rumors?” Arya said, a low giggle rumbling in her chest. “It ought to be fact by now. Even people in Braavos knew of his love for brothels. I heard people mention it in the streets from time to time when I trained with the Faceless Men.”

Sansa shook her head, a small grin stretching her mouth as she sighed. “What an adventure we’ve both had.”

Both sisters grew quiet. The distant sound of cheering and laughter wasn’t quite so abrasive in this section of the castle, but it warmed Sansa’s heart to know others could cheer and carry on.

“What Ramsay did to you, Sansa...I’m sorry I wasn’t here to protect you.”

“You’re here now.”

“Until sometime before dawn...Sansa, _please_ be careful while I’m gone. Brienne is more than capable of protecting you, but she’s going to need time to heal. Hopefully Theon wakes tomorrow or the day after. I feel better leaving knowing his wounds aren’t serious enough from watching your back. When I return, you won’t lose me again,” Arya said, eyes promising more than Sansa dared to believe.

The Lady of Winterfell didn’t want to think about being without her sister, so she bit her lip and watched her sister for a moment. “I’m just happy your first time was decent.”

“I don’t know about decent. There’s nothing to compare it to. At first, it was certainly awkward. But the longer we jiggled our ugly bits together, it became one of the most...unique experiences I’ll ever encounter.”

Warmth spread on Lady Sansa’s cheeks. “Jiggled your ugly bits?” Sansa laughed a bit louder than she had since she was a girl. “That sounds so vile, Arya!”

A smile brightened her sister’s gaze, and Arya chanced a glance behind her over to Tyrion. “The little man will be here for some time, Sansa,” her younger sister muttered. When Sansa regarded her, Arya wiggled her brows and smiled. “When he’s all healed up, you could coax him into jiggling his ugly bits around you.”

“That’s not funny,” Sansa warned, though her sister gave little indication of caring about the lady’s careful sense of propriety. “As I’ve already mentioned, I can’t imagine doing _that_ again with any man.”

“But he’s not just any man. He’s the _half_ man!”

The warmth burned all over Sansa’s body like a rash she wished she could itch away, though her heartbeat raced. Shaking her head, she flattened her brows, her typical warning to those who knew her best. A signal for people to tread carefully into a land of fear and unknown, two sentiments Sansa would never again traverse.

“Arya...” Sansa hissed, wary of the others in the room. Arya was hardly being discreet.

“You’re saying you honestly wouldn’t let Tyrion stick you with his pointy end?”

“Enough!” 

Tears formed in Sansa’s eyes. One day, probably sooner than she’d like, an arrangement would be made to further her family name. Whilst a bit unorthodox, she was amongst the last of the Starks. Concessions to tradition had to be made in desperate times. But the thought of taking another man to bed horrified Lady Stark. Ramsay had left behind more than mere fingerprints. He’d marked her entire body as his territory. Men prefered ladies, whores or highborn girls alike, to be capable of certain marriage bed activities Sansa had never before believed to be real. The girls at court jested and suggested those activities, but Sansa knew performing well for a man would never be something she’d be capable of. 

Ever. 

A man of Tyrion’s established preference, vast knowledge, and practicable experience would never settle for a woman not interested in providing the most awful carnal needs. This was one of the excuses, though a damn good one, on Sansa’s list detailing all the reasons why Tyrion wouldn’t make for a good match with the woman she was today.

Arya’s smirk evaporated. The sisters still pushed and pulled, exploring the other’s limits as they came up. It wasn’t unlike her younger sister to tease her, but she wished Arya would stop when Sansa asked the first time. 

“Don’t you think you ought to enjoy the life you have left? Have some fun? If not with Tyrion, then someone else?”

Sansa narrowed her eyes. “Why Tyrion?”

“I don’t know. You seem comfortable around him more than any other man around here…”

“I’m the Lady of Winterfell.”

Arya sighed. “I’m Arya of House Stark. I’m in the needleworking business of quietly killing people.” Shrugging when Sansa narrowed her eyes at her, her sister rolled her eyes. “Who the fuck cares? One day you’ll marry a boring sod who probably won’t learn as many tricks as any dog could. Try and have something to look back on when you start getting all pruny and gray.”

“You shouldn’t say that word, Arya.”

“Like you never have…” Arya picked dirt from under her fingernail for a bit before her sister’s silence said everything on the matter. Bugging her eyes out, she chuckled. “By the Old Gods and the New, Sansa! Your hair is already down...you may as well enjoy the breeze a bit.”

The door squealed as it swung open. Gendry’s face poked around it, eyes immediately settling on Arya. However, eventually, he bowed to Sansa. “Lady Stark.”

“I feel a breeze coming from the general direction of the stables, Sansa.” The chair her sister occupied rumbled against the stone floor. Cupping Sansa’s shoulder, Arya leaned over her and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be back soon,” she grumbled as she left her sister before the fire.

“Not _too_ soon, I hope,” Gendry ungentlemanly mumbled.

Sansa saw Arya roll her eyes, though she smiled. When he was around, he made her sister look her age, instead of the quiet assassin she grew up to be. Waving her hand, her sister sighed, “Fine, fine! Just keep up.”


	3. Fire Meet Gasoline

* * *

**Chapter 3**

_Winterfell_

Sansa

* * *

Alone, the Lady of Winterfell turned around, shifting her attention to Tyrion. Standing, she quietly moved to the side of his bed and gracefully sat on the floor at his side. No amount of time could replace what had been lost that night; however, the lady was more grateful to the Old Gods than she ever could remember that this man and Theon were spared. 

Someone had shaved his beard. A large cut almost aligning perfectly to his aged scar across his face made her flinch. Old blood stained through the bandages; they’d been left on his wound for too long. Not a stitch of the fabric was white; instead, it was almost a dull black it was so stained. There ought to be someone checking in on this man day and night, but there were simply no extra healers to devote to even a small group of injured men and women on all sides of the battle. 

Following the bandages around his head until she found the end, Sansa bit her lip and scrunched her face. She sat too low to properly maneuver his head, so she gently eased onto the side of his bed and bit her lip. The lady swirled her thumbs around each other, so she wouldn’t fidget with the ends of her copper hair. Releasing her lip, she sighed and reached under the pelt, carefully easing his hand out from under them. His palm faced up, so she quietly unfolded his fingers until his hand lay flat over the side of the bed between them. 

Lowering her mouth to the center of his cool palm, Sansa hoped to warm his flesh there, yearning that the intimate touch would be the key for him to wake up. Tyrion didn’t move or flinch, and Sansa gasped, more so from trying to stop a quiet sob. Her tears weren’t the key, either. Sliding his hand between both of hers, she swallowed and pressed kisses on his short fingers. Tears formed in her eyes, but she only registered them when a few fell on his unresponsive fingertips. The tears dropped down the length of one, until it curled around between their joined palms. 

This gasp was intentional. It helped pull her back to reality. Why was she touching him? She needed to keep him as far away from her toppled walls housing the remnants of her heart and mind as possible. Here she was kissing the hands of the second most powerful man in the foreign queen’s ranks. A shiver ran down her spine, rocking each bone in her body until she grinded her teeth together. The memory of catching him as he fell back after the whitewalker faded away in the crypt flashed in her mind. 

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

Blood drenched Tyrion’s fancy black clothes. The flow of it didn’t look quite as horrific or quick as the woman clutching a child across the crypt. Tears stung her eyes, and she began shouting for a maester. Sansa stripped both of her hands of her gloves and gripped her dragonglass dagger in her wobbly, jittery fingers. She had to know if his wounds would take him from her, though, something in the back of her mind reminded her she had no clue what she was looking for. Sansa was a lady. While an expert of knowing when someone was dead, she was no healer. 

“Why would you do that?” Sansa whimpered, watching as Tyrion’s mouth opened as if he struggled to speak. “Why would you save me?” He was determined to say something as he reached up for her. The lady held his hand down. “Lie still,” she brokenly ordered as her chin trembled. She couldn’t cup his face. So much blood drenched his skin and hair along the long slash splitting his face. Spending only enough time to see it was a serious wound, Sansa looked around to the corpses around them and saw this cut wasn’t as deep. 

Gently peeling the layers of clothes from the bloody wounds on his chest, Sansa took the edge of her dragonglass dagger and broke the remaining joined pieces of tattered fabric. When she could, she pulled them off of his body, shifting him in her lap and stroking hair from his sticky face. The warm, gooey feel of his blood drenched her hand, the tips of her hair, and her dress. 

“Stay with me, Tyrion.” Tears spilled down her face as she searched his fleeting gaze. Reaching for his dirty cloak, she found the cleanest spot and patted at his face, cleaning some of the blood. “Live for me, Tyrion Lannister. Please don’t leave me,” she whispered, the sound almost drowned out by the howls and screeches of agony and fear twisting through the dark halls below the castle. Calling out for help again, Sansa shook her head when he struggled to open his mouth. 

No one alive or in good enough condition was around them, partially hidden between a wall and the stone tomb of one of her ancestors. It was just them, both shaking against the other. The Lady of Winterfell stared at his bare chest. Just the thought of seeing his disfigured, crude body made her squirm when they married. Seeing it now didn’t shock her; instead, she took inventory of each of the six slash wounds splintering the small expanse of his chest and stomach. It wasn’t too much blood seeping from them. They looked shallow enough to her untrained opinion. If someone treated him now, he might survive.

But it was just the two of them. Surrounded by ashes of the dead and bodies of women and children on their way to their own death. 

Finally, her eyes settled on where the whitewalker had pierced him, just above where his heart ought to be. Though a steady stream of red cried from the wound, it, too, appeared shallow. There was no way of knowing for certain. Which is why she looked around them and pinched her lungs as she shouted louder than she ever had before for a maester or someone who could help him. Although he was small, Sansa likely wouldn’t be able to carry him from down here back up into the castle. Especially with all his wounds.

“...sa,” Tyrion groaned. “I…”

“Fool, you’re not going to die,” she whispered, lowering her head toward his in case he was slipping away from her. “I won’t allow it.” She wanted him to hang onto her voice for as long as possible. 

Time and the world stood still as she met his disoriented gaze. They started to close, but she shook her head and cupped the cheek not affected by the long, bloody, and shallow rift. Sobbing, she shivered and lowered her forehead to his, careful not to touch his wound. “I don’t know how to save you,” she said, the violent whimper at her lungs breaking her words apart.

“S-San…” Tyrion’s voice was softer than she’d ever heard it. Whatever it was he wished to say, she would never hear him. She knew that.

“You’re so strong, Tyrion. Fight a while longer for me. For you?” 

The words tumbled from her tongue before she even realized she’d speak them. But they were true. She knew that as soon as she told him. Breathing in, she felt as if the swell of emotions in her chest were transforming into a blade that jabbed her in the heart a thousand times over. Soon after, a powerful chill pinched the skin on her body so sharply, she almost thought Ramsay had come back to strip off her skin himself.

Tyrion started coughing, squirming in her arms. Blood flew out of his mouth when he turned his head toward the tomb. Sansa’s body deflated as she helped him look up at her. He didn’t try to say anything this time; he only brushed his distant stare over her face. A small smile worked his mouth up. 

The longer he lay in her lap, the weaker his breathing got. There was nothing Sansa could do to stop this. Nothing at all to speak one last time before he left her. The ball in her throat grew so large, she almost couldn’t breathe. Tears distorted her vision, but she held his gaze steady, unwilling to let him go without first allowing him to see a quiet truth kept so well hidden, not even she had found it. Her breaking heart beat between their breaths, only loud enough for her to hear its echo when his eyes mirrored the devastating secret. She didn’t know if it was her face he saw if he looked at her the way she looked at him. The tragedy of that realization didn’t have enough time to cut her chest open. The last moments of this man’s life were hers.

With only the time spanning likely only a few more heartbeats, Sansa swallowed and brushed her lips against his. The span of an entire lifetime crammed into a few seconds. All the feelings swarming her chaotic, terrified mind slid into place as her mouth slid against his ever so gently. It was as if someone else stepped inside her soul and puppeted her body, drowning out her mind as someone who’d somehow managed to infiltrate all her impenetrable defenses slipped away. 

Three words spilled from her lips when she pulled back a little, words so quiet she barely registered speaking. For a fraction of a second, her blood ran cold upon comprehending what she’d whispered. But then the soft light in his eyes dwindled to a dull glow. When she shouted his name, he started to look around the room. Hands clasped her shoulder, tossing her back as two Unsullied fighters dropped their spears and grabbed Tyrion’s body. Varys and Missandei spoke a language she couldn’t not understand as they carried him away from her without a second glance.

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

Somehow, they’d saved him. But now that he lived, the lady didn’t know what to do. Waiting for him to wake up seemed like the obvious course of action. He had to know that she’d feared for his life if he woke up remembering anything. Usually a private creature aware of everyone around her, Sansa hadn’t been thinking about all the eyes on her. Had anyone seen her? Thus far, no one had said anything to her. It was imperative to her plan that no one ever knew of the very truth she planned on running from.

Some things ought to remain a secret. This one would protect what was left of the woman she was. No longer could she afford to take personal risks. And Tyrion made her want to risk quite a lot, though the reasons or logic confounded her. She needed to regain her sharp wits and composure if she was to see her strategy to the end. Otherwise, her house would be in danger. Perhaps not Jon. But Arya and Bran would both be ash after her. Almost losing him had only temporarily taken her eyes off the target. She’d need to refocus. 

Soon.

Sansa almost stood, intending to walk back over to Theon’s cot and tend to him and his wounds. Almost. A gravity she could do naught but surrender to kept her at Tyrion’s side. He’d saved her. Among all his dragon queen’s people down there with them, he’d stayed by her side and comforted her when they both thought the end was inevitable for them both. Not only had he helped and saved her, he’d chosen to die beside her if fate would command it.

Biting her lip again, the Lady of Winterfell swallowed and reached for the dirty bandages, gently ushering them around his head, which she angled and positioned to untangle the ruined cloth. She set her pace slow. Sansa didn’t want to inflict him any more pain, all of which he suffered for her. Eventually, she reached the last layer of dirtied cloth stuck to his wound. Clenching her teeth as she eased it across the diagonal plane of the deep wound, Sansa swallowed and brushed his damp hair away from his face, gentle fingers trailing over his unaffected cheek and temple. An invisible spark zapped her palm, making her hand flex open in response. Clearing her throat, she twitched as pain teased her spine when he groaned the more she pulled at the bandages. 

Tyrion leaned his head into her palm, mumbling something incoherently. A single word, however, stood out. “...Daenerys?” he whispered. When Sansa involuntarily gasped, his eyes flew open. His body shivered under the layers of pelts. Sucking in a breath and howling, Tyrion winced as he stilled, paralyzed with pain from his attempt to sit up, exposing his bare shoulders.

“My lord, you must relax. You’re safe but injured.”

The Lady of Winterfell adopted a neutral expression as something akin acid burned her skin. A staggered breath in her struggling chest almost drowned her alive. Tears threatened to bubble in her eyes, but she expertly held them hostage. Bile boiled up her throat, but she cleared her throat again and kept her features passive. 

Arya had a list detailing names she’d kill. The lady’s list tallied all the reasons it wouldn’t work between them. It seemed an effective way to refocus her mind. This man loved another. He happened to be the dragon queen’s Hand, the very woman whom he’d given his heart. His loyalties would belong south, as they always had. 

Tyrion gaped up at her, for once hiding behind an inscrutable countenance. Moisture brewed in his eyes as they danced over her face, searching for something he obviously could not find. His throat bobbed as his brows tightened and mouth thinned. “Lady Stark,” he said, dropping his intense gaze over her body. “Were you hurt?” Speaking appeared rather difficult for him, but he kept his deep voice low, unusually raspy.

“No, Lord Tyrion.” Sansa slowly tugged the last of the bandages off his face, flinching when he did. Shaking her head, she offered him a neutral, cold smile. “You saved my life.”

Tyrion’s body wobbled underneath the pelts until he maneuvered his hand to reach hers. He touched her, clasping the side of her delicate hand as she fought with her control for dominance. The contact made her fingers tremble and skin tingle. It was an amplified effect that echoed across her whole body until her toes curled in her boots she’d never before experienced. With the amount of times he’d taken her hand at the capital, Sansa couldn’t remember experiencing such a profound reaction. Losing a small portion of her control at the expense of showing concern for him didn’t seem like a terrible compromise with herself, so she wrinkled her brow and set the filthy cloth on the side table near his bed. His lower lip trembled as he parted his mouth to speak.

“Sansa…”

The broken way her name tumbled from his swollen, bruised lips made her stiffen. In the crypt, he’d told her they should have stayed married. He’d rushed to her when the dead burst through the stones, guiding her around the back of a tomb. Tyrion had held her gloved hand in his, thumb lightly stroking the top of her hand. A flash of his crippled expression disarmed her. When she pulled out the crude dragonglass dagger, a grave smile worked at the corner of her agape mouth as his brows sank. After a few seconds more, he’d whipped out his dagger and kissed the top of her covered hand. It was all too much to feel at once, so she tore her hand from his and reached for the fresh bandages on the side table, shaking her head and clearing her throat.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, my lord,” she whispered, opting to fix her stare on his forehead to pretend to distract herself by studying his crude scar. The tissue between his severed skin was rather unsettling; however, she was used to gore by now. She had her dead husband to thank for that. “Your bandages need changing.”

“Sansa, you may call me Tyrion. Especially when we’re alone.” The little man didn’t bother addressing her statement. Instead, his features twitched, a vulnerable, delicate strand of fear etching in his expression. He watched her as she gaped at his huge scar, saying nothing else.

“What makes you think we’ll spend much time alone together, my lord?”

“We’re alone now…” 

The inflection on the last word made her legs shift. Sansa was brought up to be a well-mannered lady, a wife of a highborn home. The words he muttered paired with the way his pupils dilated the longer she held his gaze made her stomach fuzzy. There was something suggestive in his desperate expression. He’d never looked at her like this. The whitewalker had maimed his body, but it hadn’t landed the fatal blow. Fate had orchestrated a different fate than death for him when Arya shoved the dagger in the Night King’s abdomen. Perhaps she simply saw something that was related to the agony he must have felt. Dipping her brows, she cleared her throat, knowing the state of confusion wouldn’t be conducive to swapping out his bandages.

“Lord Tyrion,” the Lady of Winterfell muttered, earning a frustrated sigh from her patient. Her gaze settled on his clean skin, thinking it odd that she should miss something as silly as the thick beard along his cheeks and jaw. “You look younger without it...the beard…” Inwardly, Sansa cringed. She ought to not reveal her thoughts or motivations to anyone: especially to the Hand in love with a foreign queen. Her observation froze him, silencing him for a moment as he regarded her oddly.

“Is that a bad thing?”

Sansa narrowed one eye and drew her head back, finding his reply peculiar. Shaking her head, she swallowed. “No, you just look younger. Just like you did when we were married.”

“I repulsed you, then. The husband of your dreams...”

The lady leaned over and swallowed, easing her fingertips to the edges of the part of the long scar along his cheek. She felt him stiffen at her gentle touch and wondered if she’d hurt him. Tracing the angle of the open wound, she pursed her lips and shushed him as he squirmed under her caress, wishing he’d relax. He deserved no amount of the pain he seemed determined to bear wherever he went. The scar wouldn’t heal as cleanly as his old one. This one extended from his hairline near his temple, across the bridge of his curled nose, and down to the edge of his jawline. This scar was proof that Tyrion cared enough to risk his life for her. Although he devoted his loyalty and heart to another, Sansa wanted to give him something in exchange for saving her from the whitewalker down in the crypt. Had Arya waited any longer, the undead creature likely would have stolen him from her.

Stroking his hair back, she brushed the high bone of his uninjured cheek and dismantled the fortress she lived behind in her mind. A tender smile bloomed in her eyes, and it was all his. For the man with whom she shared a strange, intense connection. Seemingly, it had conjured from the thick air of the dark crypts; perhaps their connection had always been there and she’d been too young to notice it when they’d married. It was different from her affection for Theon, her brother and complicated hero. Under the flickering firelight, his features brightened. 

As she leaned over him, she cast shadows over half of his face. Before she realized what she was doing, she pressed her cold lips to his unaffected cheek. Tyrion leaned into her. As she pulled away, his parted mouth brushed her jaw, lightly teasing the corner of her mouth. The small gesture employed more intimacy than she’d ever experienced. He made her want to drop her prison of strategy for a second. That made him dangerous, but she surrendered to his effect over her long before she could leash herself back. Tyrion studied her mouth until he swallowed, looking like he almost recalled something. 

It was time to shirk away back the walls within. She couldn’t risk reminding him of her momentary lapse of judgement. He hadn’t brought it up thus far. Perhaps luck, for once, would be on her side.

When she was far enough away from him, her spine straight and posture proper for a lady of her station, she wiped a single tear falling from the edge of his eye with a sad smile. She’d hurt him in her pursuit of thanking him. The realization made her scoot away a bit more. “Toward the end, though, I admired you, Tyrion,” she said, conscious of the slip of her tongue. She’d spoken his name. The simple word made her stomach tighten. “I was a vain, naive girl trapped in a city with the family who murdered mine. I should have trusted you more, though.”

“You would have joined your father had you stayed in King’s Landing.” Tyrion’s voice was clipped, heavy with a storm of emotions she could not identify. He reached up and tried to feel the scar on his face, but she caught his hands. Freezing at her touch, he shivered and swallowed, gaping at her with unbridled, broken emotion. “How bad is it?”

Meeting his eyes, Sansa scrunched her forehead. She wanted him to be the only person she didn’t lie to, that she could be her complete self with. But that would always be impossible. Once Daenerys claimed the throne, she’d take him away. They may never see each other again after he healed. Her chest clenched, but she swallowed the pain back down before it could affect her. 

“Worse than your old scar. Wider, deeper, and longer. But like your beard, it will suit you once it heals,” the Lady of Winterfell muttered. She absently brushed his hair back again when it fell over his unreadable eyes.

“My beard? Did you not just compliment me without it?”

A smile grew on Sansa’s tired expression. “I said you looked younger, my lord.”

“So it wasn’t a compliment?”

“Are you always this eager to misunderstand what people say?”

“I’m going to believe it was, Lady Sansa.” It sounded like a warning, but the way he spoke with such ease and charisma made her second guess her hunch. Tyrion did his best to shrug, a thin grin spreading over his mouth, which Sansa watched absently. “It’s not often I receive them.”

“You didn’t have a beard or this scar before.” The little man earned a quiet laugh that tickled her throat. Dragging the long bandages through her fingers, the lady bit her lip, knowing she was traversing down a dangerous path but unable to stop it now. “You’ll have the look of a wild war hero. I’m sure you’ll be a favorite at any brothel you patron from now on.”

“Daenerys and the iron throne keeps me much too busy for all that.” Tyrion dipped his brows as much as he could. Hesitation occupied his once easy expression, like he regretted mentioning something. Clearing his throat, he reached for her hand again, but she busied both as she smoothed out the fabric of the bandage. He pressed his lips together, creating a narrow, tight line as he grimaced. Pulling his hand away, he sighed. “I haven’t... _ successfully _ ...patroned a brothel since fleeing Westeros...since before we were married.”

Technically, it was the truth. However, whispers of his tragic romance with the only woman she’d trusted completely in King’s Landing flashed in her mind like wildfire bursting to life. Stone by stone, Sansa fortified the walls around her, distancing her from the world again in an instant. “I’m ignorant of most of the details, my lord, but that’s not entirely true, is it? According to the rumors, Shae was your...” The word whore didn’t fit to describe the woman who’d, at one time, been her only true friend in the capital. Though the rumors were unkind toward her, it felt like a betrayal of the woman’s memory to speak ill of her. For so long, Shae had been the only one who’d been the least concerned with her safety and wellbeing. In times of so much agony, the woman had given her so much comfort. 

Clearing her throat, Sansa eased his head off the pillow to wrap the bandages around him, features placid but neutral. Tyrion attempted to reach for her, but the wounds on his chest prevented him from straining over his head. His breathing was erratic and eyes were frantic as she pressed her bare palm against the exposed expanse of his small, naked chest. He twitched under her touch, but froze where he lay as his eyes sheathed in a glassy layer of moisture. “I loved Shae, then...but I didn’t touch her when we were married. My duty was to you,” he said, cursing to himself like he’d said something incorrectly.

“And now your duty is to the dragon queen,” Sansa retorted rather hastily. The bite in her sharp tone made her squirm. While the words were true, she was afraid he’d read into the ulterior meaning with ease now. Shaking her head, the Lady of Winterfell returned her attention to the bandage. It was almost secured. “Rest, my lord. Your queen rides south without you soon. I’ve no doubt she’ll require much of your attention until then. Better enjoy what little reprieve you may have left.”

“Without me? I’m her Hand.”

Sansa sighed, withdrawing from his bed and moving to collect the chair she’d sat in by the fire. Planting the chair at his bedside, she was grateful for the space between them. It was easier to hide herself when he couldn’t reach her. “You’ve suffered some of the most dramatic wounds among those still living. I will send for a healer or nurse to come check on the bandages on your chest soon.”

“My brother? Did he…”

“Jaime is over there, my lord. He lost an eye and suffered a nasty head wound, but he’s in much better shape than you’re said to be. The healers whisper that you may need months to recover enough to travel anywhere.”

“If he lost an eye, that means I default to the pretty brother, right?” Tyrion joked, though his features were tight. After a moment, he narrowed his eyes on Sansa. “What’ll happen to him?”

“I trust Lady Brienne with more than my life, Tyrion. I suspect your brother would not be safe south even when Daenerys assumes the iron throne. I feel it best to have him kept here as my personal guard under her supervision and watch. Lord Royce counseled me otherwise, but after weighing everything together, he more or less supports my decision.”

“You didn’t have to save him, you know. You could have let her burn him alive, yet you did not.”

“I’ve learned compassion by watching people with an absence of it for a long time, Tyrion.” Something in her control waned for the last time that night. Perhaps it was the vulnerability nested in his haunting stare. Swallowing, she reached for his hand, gently easing the pelts over his body with the other. Warmth spread across her cheeks when she caught a glimpse of more of his naked body. Most of it drowned in stained bandages. Biting her lip, she cleared her throat. “Part of the reason was because of her. She’s been loyal to me since before we met at an inn when I traveled with Littlefinger as his niece. There is no one alive who could compare to how honorable and fierce she is when it comes to protecting me.”

“What’s the other part? Why spare the man who so dishonorably crippled your father and hurt your brother?”

Sansa parted her mouth to speak, but she stopped herself for a moment, pondering if it was wise to reward him with such an intimate truth. Gathering the remains of her guarded composure, she froze her features and tightened her grip on his hand only enough to emphasize her reply. “It’s always because of you, Tyrion. I’m not sure how much a young lady’s opinion means to you, but you  _ are _ the best of them.” Before he had a chance to respond or return her gentle touch, she slipped away from him. “I wish I could trust you the way I trust Brienne, but you're  _ her _ Hand. We’re on opposite sides of this war. Now more than ever.”

“You shouldn’t make an enemy of her, Sansa. She has two dragons that would melt your perfect, porcelain skin upon a single word from their mother. All you have to do is give her a reason...”

The Lady of Winterfell shook her head, stifling the urge to roll her eyes. “Why her?”

The little man dropped his eyes from her, opening his mouth as he figured out whatever politically neutral reply he could muster in a sickbed. “You know she loves your brother.”

“That doesn’t mean she’ll be a good queen.” Sansa sharpened her stare and pierced through his flimsy diplomatic resolve. “Your sister loved your brother, their children. Look how she turned out.”

“You seem determined to dislike her,” he fought. “A good relationship between the iron throne and the North has been the core of every peaceful, prosperous rule we’ve had.”

“Jon will be Warden of the North, so a good relationship seems likely.”

“I don’t expect him to spend much time here going forward.”

“Well, I supposed that’s up to him.” 

Sansa could rip the future from Daenerys right here. A dominant, dark part of her yearned to yank the proverbial rug from under her toes. The urge to betray her own family disarmed her more than she ever thought possible, so she turned her back to him, glaring at the fire for at least a whole minute.

“Sansa, look at me.”

Tears stung her eyes, so, to avoid the words of Jon’s true heritage from spilling between her lips, the lady gripped the back of the chair as she hunched over and rested her forehead to the back of it. Jon would leave her. Arya may, too, if she lives through her mission. She’d mentioned exploring west of Westeros once or twice in their private conversations. Bran was her brother by blood, but it was clear he was not a Stark any longer. Like he’d told her, he was something else now. It was only a matter of time before Tyrion joined the others and ran out of her life forever. 

“Ow!” she quietly flinched when her nails dug into the wooden chair. The force alone jolted the nerves on her fingertips until the pain soon spiraled down her body. The tears spilled over her eyes, and she made no move to wipe them away before she turned to face him again. Why did he have to save her? It only muddled up their already complex connection, the comfortable understanding that had, over time, blossomed into a respect and a bittersweet, doomed friendship.

The way he feasted on her heartbroken expression almost made her run from the room. She was too open to carry on a safe conversation, but he held her there with a perplexed, unreadable stare. He couldn’t move toward her. His injuries were far too much for him to do much right now. For that, she was selfishly grateful. It afforded her some control in this instance. But when he stretched his open palm face up, Sansa couldn’t stop herself from leaning toward him to take it.

“With Jon at the capital, you’ll be the true power in the North.” Tyrion brushed his thumb over the top of her hand the same way he’d done so in the crypt. A war of words she could not comprehend bloomed in his eyes almost as quickly as they died in them. He parted and closed his mouth so many times, and he became so desperate for the correct reply, he closed his eyes and groaned. Fighting with something he clearly wanted to keep secret, Tyrion tightened his hand in hers. “I’d feel much better about the future if I believed that you and Daenerys were allies.”

“What are you worried about? Jon will take what little Northmen remain. Your queen still has her dragons…”

“She’s your queen, too, Sansa,” Tyrion hissed, body trembling as his features quivered. Swallowing, gritted his teeth together and took a deep breath, wincing when he shook too hard. Groaning, the Hand searched her eyes again. “You don’t have to be her friend. But why provoke her? How is that in the best interest of your family?”

“You’re afraid of her.”

Tyrion stilled, mouth open and eyes glassy. “Every good ruler needs to inspire a bit of fear.” 

Those eyes that stared up at her cut her until she was breathless. Wiping at her tears, she sniffled and set her focus on Theon for a second. He was on his back, eyes closed, and breathing even. She’d never seen him look so peaceful. The Night King had pierced his stomach, but the wound was shallow and on the outside of his abdomen. The healers told her he was only unconscious due to the amount of blood he’d lost on his way here. With enough rest, he should heal with relative haste and ease. 

Slipping her gaze back to Tyrion, she found his guard lowered for a fraction of a second. The way he pursed his lips and leaned toward the edge of the bed paired with the broken expression he adopted, she thought he might follow her lead, if only she’d tell him her dark secrets. There was something bubbling in his gaze, but Sansa wasn’t in a headspace clear enough to decipher what it could be. Instead of risking more scars on her heart, she decided to continue their superficial political debate.

“I don’t want Jon to go down there. The men in my family don’t do well in the capital.”

Tyrion strained, suffering underneath the weight of an unknown emotion she cared not to identify. On the surface, though, he looked...disappointed? “No. But as your brother once told me, he’s not a Stark.”

Sansa looked away from him, not speaking as she tried to conceal her features from him. Tyrion seemed to translate her emotions better than she could his right now. There was too much to hide from him. 

“Are you all right?”

Her silence persisted.

Tyrion sighed. “Her people love her. You’ve seen how they fight for her. She wants to make the world a better place. I believe in her.”

The lady wished to utter his name, to spew all the complicated secrets that bound them on opposite sides of the battlefield no one understood why she occupied. Sansa had to leave if she was to preserve her and Arya’s plan. It was the only one that kept Jon alive in the capital: at least in the beginning of his lover’s rule. Calculating as many replies as possible in the span of a second, the Lady of Winterfell simply settled with the only one that revealed the truth by masking it beyond a vague veil. 

“To the capital, to House Lannister or Targaryen, Jon Snow may not be a Stark, but he is to me,” she said, her tone clipped and cold. A gasp ripped from her chest as she jumped in her seat when a body shifted in a cot to their side. Sansa narrowed her eyes when Jaime’s eye landed on her.

“It sounds to me like you’re jealous of the Dragon Queen for fucking your...  _ half _ -brother, isn’t it?,” Jaime muttered lowly. “I’m sure there are a great many things more  _ shocking _ in this world. None much compare to fucking and loving your own twin, I suppose…”

“So glad you survived, Ser Jaime,” Sansa spat, her walls fortifying around her mind at once. She heaved her chest, though, struggling to breathe as she remembered the other people in the room. Swallowing, she inspected the bandages and rubbed her hands together. “That’s the best effort I am able to provide you, Lord Tyrion.”

The door opened, so Sansa turned, expecting to see Arya; however, it was the Hound who emerged from the dark hall. “There you are, little bird.”


	4. Outnumbered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote a few lines in this chapter because I'm reworking chapter 5 a bit. So excited for the next few chapters as we see Dany and company march south and, finally, a bit into Tyrion's head (likely chapter 6). Hope you enjoy! Please leave me your thoughts after you read! They help me write quicker knowing people want more!

* * *

**Chapter 4**

_Winterfell_

Sansa

* * *

The door opened, so Sansa turned, expecting to see Arya; however, it was the Hound who emerged from the dark hall. “There you are, little bird.”

Dropping her eyes, she stood and moved to Theon, sitting at the edge of his bed, she leaned over him and smiled. Kissing his forehead, Sansa locked eyes with Jaime for a second before standing at her full height, turning to the Hound, who glared down at the elder Lannister brother.

“If you’re passing your mouth around to every man in the room, my cheek’s a bit cold.” The kingslayer sounded bored.

“Jaime...” Tyrion growled, his threat quiet.

“Shut your fucking cunt mouth, you one-eyed lion.” Clegane grumbled a slew of curses as he reached for Sansa’s hand. “Follow me, little bird. I need a drink.”

The lady stopped, snatching her hand from his tight grasp. “I’m not exactly known for dazzling or entertaining company, Clegane.”

His already menacing glare darkened. “One look at you, and I can tell you need to get fucked or fucked up right about now. You’re so wound up tight in all that fabric, Lady Stark.”

“Just because the world as we know it almost ended, everyone thinks I ought to drop all reason and propriety…” Raising her brow, Sansa narrowed her eyes. “Well, you’re not exactly helping your case.”

“Look, we all fucking saw those cunts raise from the dead and attack us; tonight could very well be the last night I get to celebrate anything in this sorry life. After everything I just went through, I can’t fucking stomach your Northern whore cunts trying to straddle me every five seconds when all I want is to get pissed. They won’t pay me interest with you around. You’re the Lady of fucking Winterfell.”

Jaime grumbled something, making Sansa’s eye twitch and mouth flatten. “Just go already. Leave the dead with some peace while you’re at it,” he mumbled, casually throwing his arm over his face and wincing as he hit his head wound. “Fuck me…”

“Or you could join me up here.” Sansa ignored Jaime, instead switching her focus back on the Hound. “I have to send for a nurse to swap out Lord Tyrion’s bandages anyway. I could call for some wine or ale. There are no...well, the _girls_ won’t come here.”

Clegane leaned down and invaded her personal space. He narrowed his eyes, and some of his hair fell in front of his face. “Afraid to leave your traitorous kraken, little bird?”

“With last night aside, I haven’t been afraid in some time, Hound.”

Sansa stepped outside, instantly locating a servant boy further along the dark corridor. Instructing him to fetch a nurse and two flagons of wine with a few goblets, the Lady of Winterfell returned to the room, noticing Tyrion’s sharp glare at Clegane’s back. He looked at him like he used to stare daggers at his rabid nephew when he didn’t know she was looking. Swallowing, Sansa heard Clegane grab the chair by Tyrion’s bedside.

“What the fuck’s your problem, Imp?”

Tyrion said nothing. She only heard a low, guttural grunt and a chuckle from the opposite side of the room. Apparently, whatever he was doing, he was entertaining his miserable brother.

“When’s the wine getting here?” Clegane grumbled as he set his chair at the table by the fire. Sansa stood with her back to the men, staring down at the flames, not at all bothered by the loud, screeching wood table moving farther away from the hearth. Finally, the Hound sat at the table, tapping each finger over and over again and waiting in silence until the door eventually squealed, revealing Varys. 

A small collection of goblets were in his arms as a boy deposited three flagons of wine on the table. “When I heard that the Lady of Winterfell had requested wine, I just had to follow the servant boy up here. ‘What mischief could the other Lady Stark impose on her guests?’ I thought. It was simply too tempting an opportunity to miss,” the spider said, his voice dripping with perfect poise required for empty flattery. He walked into the room, sweeping it and seeing that Jaime and Tyrion were both awake. 

Setting the goblets on the table, he reached for Sansa’s hand and kissed the top of her knuckles. Sandor immediately poured himself a cup, ignoring the newcomer and growling. “I must say that I’m quite impressed at your display in the small council chamber this afternoon. That it is _your_ plan our queen has decided to employ is a rather unexpected turn of events.” Varys stepped away from her and carried a seat to the table.

“Plan? What plan?” Tyrion groaned from where he lay. “Have I been sacked from Daenerys’ small council already?” He softly chuckled, the disturbance of his still body making him grimace and shift his shoulders on the pillow underneath his head.

Varys shared a look with Sansa, who opted not to speak. Sighing, he leaned back, so he could see the small man. “I’m afraid you’re still rather relied upon by our queen. However, not all ears are at liberty to know of the details of our plans going forward.”

“You mean me,” Jaime said with a knowing sigh. “Why not just speak plainly, Spider?”

Varys joined his hands underneath his garb. “Of course I mean no offense, Ser Jaime. I’m only following orders explicitly laid out by my queen.”

“Fucking hell, I’d almost prefer the fuckheads downstairs to this shit.” Clegane poured a goblet of wine and set it in front of the only other empty chair at the table.

“The girls could make you happy for a little while.”

“There’s only one thing that’ll make me happy,” the Hound grunted, downing his goblet.

Tilting her head, Sansa asked, even though she knew he wouldn’t answer. “And what’s that?”

“That’s my fucking business…” A smirk melted through Sansa’s icy expression. Glancing at her, he grumbled. “Drink, little bird.”

The lady openly smirked, obeying his command if not to entertain him once more before he dies. Breaking her rules of propriety, she folded her arms on the table and leaned over, though her back remained straight as an unyielding blade. Grabbing the goblet, she held his stare while she sipped on it.

Clegane shook his head with a rough sigh. “Used to be you couldn’t look at me.”

“That was a long time ago,” Sansa said, voice low. “I’ve seen much worse than you since then.” Everyone else in the room, with exception to a brief glance over at Theon, she ignored. Varys quietly poured him a cup of wine.

“Yes, I’ve heard.” The way his eyes openly dropped down her body and back up didn’t make her flinch. Instead, she allowed him to indulge his imagination on how she may look naked after what the songs must sing of her dead husband’s assault and cruelty. The thought was right at the surface of his features. He wore it like she used to wear her heart on her sleeve. The lady fixed her countenance to remain distant, cool, and impenetrable. “You were broken in. Heard you were broken in rough...” he quietly added. The way his voice strained touched her, though she didn’t allow it to surface. 

“And he got what he deserved.” The fire flickered, and the room darkened for a fraction of a second. “I gave it to him.”

The room was quiet. Only the snapping of burning logs in the hearth dared interrupt their moment. Sandor narrowed his eyes, the question he’d soon ask already brewing for her. “How?”

“Hounds.”

Clegane chuckled, dropping his eyes to his goblet and shaking his head. When he looked up, she offered him an honest smile. It didn’t reach her eyes, but she gave him all she could offer. Something about this moment told her he’d be one of the individuals she’d never see again once they all marched south. If she could offer one of his last happy memories, she would break her character enough to give him something to hold onto.

“You’ve changed, little bird.”

“I had to.” Sansa dropped her eyes and sipped on her cup again, her smile lingering enough to keep the mood light for them. 

“None of it would have happened if you’d left King’s Landing with me during the Battle of Blackwater.” The words surprised her. They’d come from a side of Sandor she’d not seen. It humbled her he gave her a small part of what was left of him in case her hunch was true. “No Tyrion. No Littlefinger. No Ramsay. _None_ of it.”

Their mutual stare pulled them from the world around them. It was easy to picture the life she could have had had she done this or that differently. He’d meant good in saying it. Their expressions both chipped. Breaking was simply not possible for either of them with each other. His mouth ticked up in a gentle smirk, and he almost appeared like a completely different man. The fire glossed over his coarse, textured, ugly burn, framing him in her memory forever. The lady reached across the table and took his hand. It was more than she needed to give, but he’d helped her a time or two when she was trapped in King’s Landing. It was her turn to offer him comfort. A dark thought settled in his gaze. A tiny shred of him blamed himself for her horrors. It was easy for her to provide him the closure he silently asked for.

“Without Littlefinger and Ramsay and all the rest, I would have stayed a little bird all my life.” Lingering her soft, smooth touch on his calloused hand a moment more, Sansa withdrew from him and downed the rest of her wine.

The Hound lifted his goblet. “Lady Stark,” he said before he downed his cup.

“All this heavy subject matter after a fierce battle for the living is making me thirsty,” Jaime grumbled. He winced, exhaling as he struggled to sit up and throw his legs over the edge of his sickbed. Pointing to one of the empty chairs along the wall, he added, “Varys, be a good eunuch and pull a cripple a chair.” 

Clenching his teeth together, the kingslayer hobbled to stand and eventually limped toward the table, taking a seat between Sandor and the spider. The bloodied bandages over his missing eye looked more gruesome up close than it did from afar, but the Lady of Winterfell held her neutral features in place as he stared at her.

“Do you realize that you’re currently sitting in the same room with the bulk of your past enemies.” Jaime’s eye narrowed as his head leaned to one side as he slouched in his chair. “Doesn’t that intimidate you?”

Sansa shook her head. “Not in the least.”

The elder Lannister leaned across the table, scrutinizing her features until he grew bored of the effort. “If you’re bluffing, I can’t tell. You’re good. You learned how to play the game.”

“In the game you know, there are players and there are pawns. However, I found my own way through the game at first: staying invisible. Steering pawns or playing the game may be necessary so long as I live, but once Daenerys acquires her southern throne, I shall mostly focus on rebuilding the North and my family. Doing so has always been my only long-term priority since Margaery spared me from marrying your awful spawn.

Jaime drew his head back and smiled, his darker blond hair falling over his head as he chuckled once. “People should fear you, Lady Stark. You’re more disciplined than your passionate, impulsive mother and much more ruthless than your moral, honorable dad,” he said, gulping his wine Varys had poured for him at some point. 

“I aim to course correct my family’s mistakes. My mother never should have taken Lord Tyrion, nor should my father have been so careless. Neither decision was in the best interest of my displaced family. No one in my family has put our House before themselves. That changes with me.”

Wiping his mouth with his filthy sleeve, Jaime chuckled. “Dare I say you sound like my father...and Cersei.”

The kingslayer had to be goading her. Heat swarmed Sansa’s body, but when it came time to burn her features, her cold guard froze the fire, ever the perfect bottleneck in times she felt overwhelmed. She controlled the urge to curl her lip or throw the flagon in his face. Instead, she remained unchanged. He was testing her resolve. The reason, however, remained a mystery.

“Ser Jaime!” Brienne coughed, her voice almost a whisper. 

The kingslayer’s expression cracked, turning his whole focus on Lady Brienne. If he didn’t love her, he certainly adored her. The staunch difference between how they interacted the days leading up to the battle and now almost shocked her. Something truly traumatic had occurred on the battlefield. A part of her wishes she could inquire further, but Brienne would be in no shape to leave her bed for at least a week and a half. 

Sansa nearly winced when he hobbled over to her cot and threw himself on the floor, reaching for the bowl of water and the towel in it. Gently dabbing her face, Jaime searched her black and blue skin, no trace of her unusually pale tone left from the battle. Sansa stood and rushed over to the opposite side of her sickbed. The kingslayer had a difficult time reaching the other side of her bruised and swollen face. Sansa sighed and rolled her eyes, deciding she didn’t have enough patience for any other Lannister’s pride.

“Give me that,” the lady whispered, gently pressing the cloth over her face as Brienne stared at Jaime. 

The knight coughed some more, but continued to watch as Jaime’s features trembled. He brought his only hand to caress her short, platinum hair, lip trembling. “Are you all right, Ser Brienne?” he muttered. When she tried to fumble her hand out from the pelts that drowned her weak body, Jaime reached underneath them and gently guided her hand on top of them, pressing her fingers to his mouth. 

“Don’t speak to...Lady Stark that way…” Brienne choked on her exhale, but Sansa held her shoulders to avoid causing her any further pain, letting her neutral expression to fit the worry she felt for her dearest ally aside from her sister.

The kingslayer’s expression tore apart before Sansa’s eyes. The Lady of Winterfell had always suspected Brienne’s love for him, but she never believed he would return such scandalous but ardent feelings. Jaime looked at no one else save his lady knight, while Sansa continued to clean Brienne’s face and bare shoulders. Sansa didn’t know from where Brienne summoned the strength, but she lifted her arm and cupped Jaime’s cheek the more she came to, seeing the makeshift patch over his eye. Brienne’s distinct features exploded as she sobbed.

“I’m so sorry, Jaime!” Brienne turned to face the man Sansa only knew to be a traitor, an enemy, paying no mind to the insurmountable pain she must have felt in doing so. Coughing, she hissed and shook her head as Jaime reached over with his stump and rubbed it over her scarred, bloodied back. “I should have seen them coming…”

“Nonsense, wench,” Jaime said, turning his head, so he could place endless kisses up and down her muscular arm. “No need to mourn my eye. I’m still better looking than you.” Together, they shared a quiet laugh. She didn’t understand either of them, nor did them, together, make sense to her. He pressed his forehead to hers, leveraging a gentleness she’d never seen in him. “We were overrun. Your efforts saved both our lives. Podrick...dare I say, that squire saved us both...”

Sansa dropped her hand, staring at them and immediately knowing she’d never have such open, raw intimacy with anyone. The sole person she possibly desired stood on the opposite side of a warpath of chaos and flames. A wolf had no place walking through fire, but neither did a lion. 

It was an unconscious act, so far out of the realm of her contained composure. When looking at the pair’s happiness overwhelmed her and threatened to inflict physical pain at her chest, Sansa gazed over at Tyrion, who stared back at her. The first mistake she’d made was assuming he’d watch his beloved brother. Deep in her stomach, butterflies both took flight and burned alive all at once. The greatest desire the Lady of Winterfell yearned to see happen was that she filled this castle with endless laughter. A family. 

But marrying Ramsay might have ruined her for other men. That Sansa’s greatest fear may bear some weight in reality momentarily crushed her resolve. Tyrion may be so unlike any man she knew; however, he’d chosen to stand at the side of a woman with whom he’d happened to fall in love. That woman was the queen who’d taken the North and Jon from Sansa. It didn’t matter who felt what. The truth was that there would really be no one in this world with whom Sansa could rest beside. Until the day she died, her walls and guard would have to stay up. 

With everyone. 

The weight of this truth made her shoulders sag and heart clench. She would be exhausted within a few years at best; the idea of living detached from everyone for the rest of her life meant that, one day, she might rest her head for a moment when she was least suspecting. One of her enemies may reach Winterfell, the home she never planned on leaving again, and slit her throat. All of the suffering, pain, and loss would have been all for naught. 

Sansa would end up exactly like her mother.

Dropping freezing water over the fires of her heart, she quietly gasped and forced herself to see Daenerys’ face. Her stupid white braids. Her damn violet eyes. Those fucking dragons. Like lightning struck her where she sat, a memory sparked in her thoughts. Nothing specific. It was only enough to remind her of how vain, jealous, and naive she’d been as a girl. In a few ways, Aunt Lysa had looked at her like she probably did now when Petyr kissed her in the castle courtyard. If that girl was really dead, then why was it so easy for Sansa to slip back into her head. The Lady of Winterfell shouldn’t act like a child.

The second mistake was looking to Varys, remembering about the others in the room. The look on the spider’s face sent a deluge of cold iron through her veins, and she wished more than ever to have perished in the Long Night. His narrow eyes painted the truth of what she felt. And more. The mysterious man seemed to siphon all the secrets she clung so close to, but no one would control her again. The last of her broken guard sealed back up, corking back the few secrets that belonged to her for safekeeping.

“I saw the most curious thing, Lady Stark,” Varys said, his tone chilling. The beats of her heart were more violent than any lashings she’d endured under Ramsay and Joffrey combined. “On my way here, I saw a wolf prancing around with a stag. Your brother is the Three-Eyed Raven, a name I can’t claim to know much about yet. The bastard you named king swept the Mother of Dragons right off the ground. Your sister ran undetected for years right under the capital’s nose and made it all the way across the Narrow Sea to our friends in Braavos. She is the savior of all who live. I came here because I’d only heard passing tales of you. Imagine my disbelief to discover that you are the most interesting Stark. I should have paid more attention to you, my lady.”

Tyrion scowled and hissed as he failed to sit up, howling and gripping the pelts covering his bare chest. He cursed and shook until Varys stood to his feet. Clenching his teeth, the Hand swallowed and shivered. “You will...not threaten...Lady Stark.”

“Settle down, my lord,” Sansa whispered, not turning to look at Tyrion. Instead, she watched Varys. People always came to her defense. They all lined up to protect her: even if that meant they died. No one thought her capable of keeping herself safe to any capacity. Sansa’s face tightened, correcting the fury and jealous storm across her expression. “You saved me from a monster, but there are none here.”

“Lady Sansa…” Tyrion muttered, clinging to his stomach with unsettling ardor. He appeared to be in a great deal of pain, but Sansa couldn’t risk giving this spider any more information.

Varys regarded his compatriot and sighed. “I do wish you had more regard for your health, Lord Hand. You’re of no use to our dear queen whilst so...indisposed.” A thin grin spread over his mouth. “I can’t imagine a lion being very happy surrounded by nothing save a steady chill and leagues of snow. For your sake, I do pray for a swift recovery, my friend. The capital would better offer a man of your tastes and talents a familiar incentive to regain your strength and... _keep warm_...than the North; however, the maester insists you must stay here, lest you risk infecting your wounds or making them worse. We must all make due in such...uncertain times. Daenerys is so very lost without you at her side, my lord.”

In a vague turn of phrase, Sansa caught onto how the spider worked and made threats. Before everyone in the room, he reminded the little Hand of his responsibilities whilst reminding Sansa precisely what he’d done—likely thousands of times—prior to their marriage. It wasn’t that it shocked or disgusted her; yet, it reinforced the truth that kept her and Tyrion on opposing sides of the world. He, in her opinion, would make for an exceptional expert of beauty simply based on all the women he’d bought. Sansa wasn’t ignorant of the striking features inherited from her mother, but that was only her face. Perhaps once they would have been a time where the lady could know what to do to please men. Like a barrier snapping into place in her mind, she swallowed and straightened her spine.

They would never be enough for each other, so it scarcely made sense to spend so much time and spare as much thought on the subject of Tyrion. Some things really were impossible. Acknowledging such facts didn’t have to be bittersweet or tragic. It was just for the best.

“Fucking cunts. All of you are ruining my drinking! Shut the fuck up or get lost…” the Hound shouted, earning a tiny grin from Sansa.

Varys sighed, eyeing Sandor in a peculiar way before he took his seat and drank some of his wine. “I do apologize.”

Sansa purposely ignored Tyrion and turned her attention to Brienne. Jaime never once looked at any of them, his focus steady on the brutalized knight in her bed. With the panic swept away, the lady sank down on the opposite side of Brienne’s cot, taking the cloth and dabbing it on her back in a few dirty places. The lady knight cringed, but made no noise of discomfort or pain. Lady Stark smirked behind her and caught Jaime staring at her. 

The kingslayer silently mouthed, “Thank you.”

Nodding, Sansa noticed that Brienne had passed out. “If she is happy, I am happy, Ser Jaime.” The rest of what she wished to tell him would need to be saved for when so many watchful eyes were not around. It was odd, but they quietly settled into an agreement. It was hardly an honest foundation, but it was, at least, a start.

“I must let her try and make an honest as possible man of me.”

“She is welcome to try.”

“Have you met her? She’s more stubborn and determined than anyone.”

“Then she will,” Sansa muttered.

Tyrion whined as she heard him shuffle back onto the bed. “Will anyone fetch me a cup already?” When he groaned, Sansa stopped herself from biting her lip. “My body is on fire…”

Another set of footsteps emerged from the dark hall beyond the door, revealing Podrick. “My lady? Has Ser Brienne woken up yet?”

“Finally! Pod, get an old man his wine!” Quietly shifting in his bed, Tyrion grumbled and rubbed his face. “I shall also require help enjoying it…”

Sansa contained the smile that threatened her countenance. “Podrick, you actually just missed her. She came to for only a few moments, but she sounded better than you’d expect. You may stay if you wish. Would you mind tending to Lord Tyrion and watching over Theon for me until I return?”

“Of course, my lady. It would be my honor.”

“Thank you.” Sansa moved toward Sandor and reached for the flagon, pouring one cup full of the wine. Sipping on it, she sighed and looked down at him. “I...should find my sister. It’s getting late. I wish you luck on your ventures south. Until then, I’m certain you’ll find someone better suited to celebrate with you tonight.” The lady offered him a small smile when he looked up at her. Cupping his shoulder with her palm, Sansa nodded once. “Goodbye, Sandor.”

A quiet understanding passed between them, and he bowed his head slightly, a gentle smirk easing from his tight mouth. “Goodbye, little bird.”

Lady Sansa almost made it to the door before Jaime cleared his throat. “Lady Stark?” He waited until she turned to him to add, “Give that boy...Gendry...my regards.”

The Lady of Winterfell didn’t widen her eyes, didn’t swallow, and didn’t gasp. Instead, she simply stared down at the kingslayer, who’d been privy to every word since at least when Arya fled the room to be with the Baratheon bastard. When he nodded, Jaime’s smirk sent a pang of doubt in her mind. Maybe she wasn’t as impervious to others as she thought.


	5. The End of All Things

* * *

**Chapter 5**

_Winterfell_

Sansa

* * *

The castle, at night after a treacherous battle, was darker than she ever remembered. It concealed her grim expression from the people further along the hall. When they grew close, she expertly fixed her features until they were behind her. She worked her way through her home, until she arrived in the great hall. Despite the late hour, people shouted and laughed, spilling wine all over the stone floor. The girls the Hound desperately avoided draped themselves on willing men, who appeared to be drunk and happy. Every man in this room had survived something terrifying. They all deserved the illusion of happiness at the least. A smile almost melted Lady Stark’s frozen features.

Sighing, the Lady of Winterfell continued her pursuit of a quieter place. Until Jon’s bulky, distinct cloak caught her attention. Following his gaze across the opposite side of the hall, the lady found her sister lurking in the dark hall. Her siblings shared a knowing look before Arya disappeared back into the shadows. Jon stilled, only taking a second to follow after their younger sister. Daenerys was nowhere in sight. Scrunching her nose and dipping her brows, Sansa zigzagged through the wobbly people stumbling near the wall, to which she kept close to avoid any unwanted interaction. 

The way Arya had gazed upon her favorite brother, with whom she’d still not shared much time alone, reminded Sansa exactly of the looks she and Arya sparred with before they’d caught onto Littlefinger’s scheme to break them apart. Walking into the hall opposite of the one both of her siblings crept in, the lady quietly stepped across the corridor linking the two together. Reaching the corner, she listened to sounds around her, the echoes of their footsteps gently flowing around her until they almost disappeared. 

Swallowing, Sansa narrowed one eye and continued her pursuit. Stalking in the dark on her tiptoes after people was more of her sister’s talent; however, she did her best to keep her thin heels from clicking on the stone. Only every few steps when she tried tracking which direction they’d disappeared in did she make a sound. Biting her lip, she peered around a corner a few corridors later, catching the edge of Jon’s cloak dissolve down another dark path. Sighing, she rolled her eyes when he went outside to one of the high pathways along the perimeter of the castle walls. 

When she reached the door outside, she noticed a small boy peering through the crack. Clearing her throat, she stood in the middle of the hall and called upon the bravado underscoring her signature cold composure: narrowed eyes, a distant frown, straight spine, and raised chin. The boy gasped, but she held out her hand before he could slip away. “When you crawl back to the spider, you will tell him, ‘The North remembers.’ Will you do that?” she whispered.

“Mhmm…” The boy cowered under her blank stare, rushing past her the next instant.

Sansa assumed the boy’s place at the crack in the door, noting her siblings about seven feet away beyond it. Biting her lip, she watched them in silence.

“You can never forget who you are, Jon.”

“What do you think I’ll do when I march south, Arya? Plot with Dany to murder Sansa or something?” Jon had his back to her, but she saw him scratch the nape of his neck with an audible sigh that eclipsed the passing wind. “Sansa may tell someone...but even then, I’m not capable of spilling the blood of my own family. Especially not hers…”

“She doesn’t seem to believe that these days,” Arya said, her expression tight and unreadable. Her voice was light, so like the gentle caress of summer’s morning air. “To her, you marched south for help a king and came back something else.”

“Arya, I love her...my own...Well, you know,” Jon grumbled, moving to face the bloody battlefield below them, standing beside their sister. Neither spoke for a moment. Arya rested her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm over her shoulders, bringing her forehead to his mouth. Her sister threw her arms around his chest, until they both pulled away. “But nothing will change what happened before Sansa came to Castle Black. What that bastard did to her...to Rickon, there will never be a day that I forget it. I never thought I’d have the bond I do with Sansa. I suppose I’ve broken what little faith and trust she once gave me, though…”

“I don’t think so.” Arya pulled away from him and lowered her eyes to the door for a fraction of a second before touching his arm. “From her point of view, you never wrote to her for her opinion on the matter of bending the knee.”

“Arya, I was named King in the North. Don’t you think that title, of all of ‘em out there, implies the right to a final decision?”

“Think like that and you’ll end up like Robb or worse…”

“What would you have done differently, then?”

“I believe you did what was best in the time you knew we had and the options you had available.” Arya smiled up at Jon, dropping her hand from him. The force of the passing wind made her sword sway at her side. “However, if you make decisions that affect Sansa’s independence, don’t you think you ought to send a raven at least asking for her opinion on the matter? Rickon died in the battle that you were losing until she rushed in with Littlefinger’s army. I believe Sansa would have found a way to support your decision and accept Daenerys had you just sent a raven.”

“You don’t know everything that led to me bending the knee, Arya.”

“Actually, I do. You went to Dragonstone, bickered with your queen about whether or not you’d bend for her until you did. And then she bent for you.”

“Arya!”

Her sister laughed, gently hitting his shoulder. “Of course, I’m sure there’s the part of you two falling in love and all that, but that’s boring. Save those details for Sansa, if you were about to gush. That’s not me.”

Jon leaned his elbows onto the stone wall overlooking the lands surrounding their home. “Is Sansa planning her murder?”

“No.”

“Daenerys isn’t drinking or eating anything without first having an Unsullied taste everything first.” Jon rubbed his face and sighed, his shoulders sagging a while before speaking again. “She believes Sansa’s going to have you kill her on your way back here.”

“Jon, she has two dragons. Westeros can’t afford another mad Targaryen.”

“That’s Tyrion’s job…He’s her Hand.”

“Yes.” Arya sighed. “But he’ll be here for months at least.”

“I wish you weren’t leaving. Sansa can’t be here alone with one Lannister, and there’s two of ‘em here.”

“Jaime made his way up here to fight beside us against the Army of the Dead. It seems he’s rather devoted to Ser Brienne,” her sister said, momentarily relenting to Jon’s unspoken worries. The three of them knew all about what the Lannisters were capable of. It was almost moot to waste words or the time on the subject. “But I don’t suspect that it’s Jaime whom you lose sleep over…”

Jon straightened. Sansa couldn’t see his expression, but his silence painted a faint picture of its shape in her mind. After a few more seconds, her brother sighed. “Why have you been eavesdropping?”

“Because the opportunity presented itself. The Dragon Queen’s attention has been hyper-focused on our sister. And unlike our dead family, those of us still breathing can no longer afford to see only skin-deep.”

“It’s stuff like this that feeds into Daenerys’ cause to believe my family wants her dead.”

“Tyrion is loyal to your beloved queen, Jon. She needs not worry about that. Fear is an agent more binding than blood these days, and your queen has two fully grown dragons flying around Westeros. Whatever he’s seen in his time standing at her side has him rooted at her hip. For the most part.”

“For the most part? Arya, have you seen the way he’s looked at her? Tyrion almost died saving her. With the Army of the Dead defeated, Daenerys will stop at nothing to take her place on the iron throne. Anything that gets in the way of that is a threat to her rule.”

“Careful, brother...It almost sounds as if you’re ungrateful for Lord Tyrion’s sacrifice to save our sister.”

Jon whirled toward their sister, his strong hand cupping the back of her neck. Arya could have easily evaded him, but she’d remained still. She’s wanted to provoke him. Sansa couldn’t see Jon’s expression, but she could see the anger in his eyes from her slew of memories during their time together when she’d defied him or questioned his decisions as king.

“Have you forgotten who I am...or was at least raised to be? I don’t care how complicated our blood gets, Arya. Sansa is my sister! I would lay my life down if it meant she could draw one more breath. You don’t know what she was like when she came to Castle Black. No matter what she does, I will always love her. We don’t have to be as close as we briefly were for that to stay true.”

He stepped back from their sister, dropping his hand to his side and sighing. The fur at his shoulders sagged with the movement. “But I love Daenerys, too. It doesn’t matter what or who she is. I’ve bent the knee for her, because I’ve seen what she does for her people first hand. They love her... _believe_ in her. Everyone has a mix of good and bad in ‘em, Arya. Sansa never gave her a chance, and I know it’s my fault for not sending a bloody raven or what not. But she’s good, Arya. I wouldn’t bend the knee to someone who I thought would harm my family. You must believe that.”

“I believe loyalties can be complicated, Jon.” Arya joined her hands behind her and bit her lip, squinting at her brother. “Lord Tyrion and Sansa were married, and not by choice. She’s told me only a few things about her journey back home. From what I gather, their marriage, though not at first, became a reprieve from the hells she endured in the capital. All I care about was that he was good to her. I think their history lends them a bit of familiarity in a time where the dead swing swords. That’s all.”

“Familiarity or not, I don’t like the way he looks at her…” Jon rubbed his face, grumbling incoherently from Sansa’s distance. 

A tight cord running from her throat to her toes pulled until it strained, threatening to snap. It suffocated her, so she ran her fingers over her chest to help dull the ache. In what way did Tyrion look at her? She’d spent a great deal of time, too much if she was honest, watching him adore his queen alone and with Jon, tending to his duties, or speaking with his brother. Before the battle, Sansa had nearly gathered enough information to establish a clear routine for him. How could they not see what was painfully clear, dangling before them? 

Jon sighed, saying, “He’s a Lannister, sworn to Daenerys, and he’s...the Imp. Nevermind his name, his reputation alone is enough to dishonor her.”

Sansa tightened her fists so hard, her wrists shook from the impact. The Imp was the character the world created for him. Just like they’d made her the disgraced daughter of a traitor. She would never know the same mockery Tyrion no doubt had faced across his life. The sins the world assigned to her were superficial. He was a man, but it seemed no one would let him forget what they saw of him. Still, how was it that a single soul alive could not see all he was?

“You must assure your queen that she is safe. Sansa wants little to do with the south. She will not allow anymore Northern blood to spill on account of the iron throne.”

“I can’t tell anymore what Sansa wants…”

“Well, it’s obvious,” Arya said, sighing and leaning her back on the wall of the pathway. Rubbing her hands together, she blew hot air into her palms and lightly punched their brother’s shoulder. “Sansa’s honestly not too complicated. Her walls are simply too high for most people to peek over or infiltrate.”

Jon chuckled, regarding her before saying, “And how is it that a pipsqueak like you can see over them?” 

“I walked right through the front door. She let me in.”

“I’ve tried making her see why I did what I did. She doesn’t listen to me.”

“Sansa may not seem like us, two people who devoted so much of our lives and purpose to a singular cause—you with the Night King and me with exacting revenge. When I first got back, I thought she was lost to Littlefinger, to be honest.”

“What changed?”

“The problem with our causes, Jon, is that they have an end. We killed the Army of the Dead, and I’ll soon have my names crossed out. What am I supposed to do once all the names are gone? Sansa’s purpose is a life sentence: one father, Robb, and mother eventually all lost sight of.”

“Do I really need to ask another question? Out with it...”

“When father went to the capital, he, too, asked many questions,” Arya said, reaching for his hand. When he looked at her, she shook her head. “You won’t survive there if you don’t start picking up at least a few crumbs of answers for yourself. Spoon feeding isn’t something they do in King’s Landing.”

“And now we’re talking about father…”

Her sister growled, dropping his hand and rubbing her face. “Sansa wants the North’s independence!”

“That’s not a life sentence, Arya.”

“It is. She wants that independence to hold for generations. Taking our kingdom back is one thing, but keeping it is a different thing entirely, as you perfectly know.”

“What you’re suggesting is treason, Arya. Daenerys won’t simply hand over one of her kingdoms because Sansa demands it.”

“Sansa plans on asking. She won’t risk another pointless, wasteful war.”

“Daenerys won’t, Arya.”

“The Dragon Queen made a deal with the Iron Islands. They asked, and she acquiesced. Perhaps if we all started to give each other a fair chance, we could all go back to our miserable lives and leave each other well enough alone.”

“Tell our sweet sister that if she believes that Daenerys would cross the Narrow Sea, claim her throne, and simply dissolve the Seven Kingdoms, then she doesn’t know who she’s playing against.”

“I pity the fool who bets against our _sweet_ sister,” Arya said, eyes sharply focused on her brother. Jon’s breath caught, and he straightened his spine as he stepped toward him once.

“Arya, Daenerys has dragons…” Jon sank his face in his gloved hands and sighed. “I was named king in the North, a title I didn’t want, and answered an invitation in hopes of saving my people. She generously provided the dragonglass the North needed to end the Night King’s army...a fact the North seems to conveniently forget. I bent the knee for her _for_ the North. She is my queen.”

Sansa fought the urge to laugh. The way he spoke, it all sounded rather simple; however, the world wasn’t an audience under a wondrous cloak of stars blinking in the dark night sky. It drowned in an endless ocean of gray. It didn’t exist in black or white. Loyalties were easily bought; men were easily manipulated. Families were often betrayed. None of this would end simply because a new queen’s ass, regardless if she was well fit to rule or deserving, warmed the iron throne.

“I’m making no plans to ever return south after I come back here, Jon. Maybe one day, I’ll sail west of Westeros, but for now, my place is here. The pack is here. _‘There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.’_ It’s what my mother always said. Sansa and I...we never saw eye-to-eye growing up, but I know she would make for a great queen for the North. If it’s a war that breaks out because you fail to make Daenerys see reason, then know it’s at Sansa’s side I’ll be standing. If we burn, it will be together.”

Their brother shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t do that. Don’t complicate things.”

“Jon, we all have our place in the world, and I can not only finally see it, but I also touch it. The way I see it is that we’re both loyal to powerful women. Daenerys will have her iron throne in a little while, but Sansa’s patient. She has the right name, loyalties from almost every major and minor House left in the North, and she’s proven her own loyalty to this kingdom by marrying Ramsay. She would die for her home. She’s already bled for it. Would Daenerys do the same?”

“That’s not fair, Arya.”

“That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you, Jon!” Arya reached for his shoulders, holding him steady in her gentle touch. “I know you know the world isn’t fair, but we’ve all come so far to start repeating the fatal mistakes that doomed those we love. You’re a great fighter. Hell, you’re even a great leader; however, you can be a stupid man around the wrong people.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Really? You couldn’t look Cersei Lannister in the face and lie to her. She’s the worst of them, and you still afforded her a bit of honor like it was owed to her.”

“Are we actually spending our last night together talking in circles?”

Arya shrugged. “Think of it as practice for the capital if you need to.”

A sad sigh slowly sagged Jon’s strong shoulders as silence settled between them. After a second, he matted the top of her hair with his hand. 

“Hey!” Arya ducked slightly to evade any further assault.

“Oh, don’t tell me you suddenly care about your hair now…”

Arya rolled her eyes and groaned. “Not in this lifetime…” Both of them glanced out over the perimeter of their home, rooted where they stood, until Jon pulled her in for a warm, tight embrace. Her sister lifted her eyes to the door Sansa hid behind. “Jon, promise me you won’t forget who you are.”

“Until a few days ago, the shape of this world and who I was within those boundaries were so clear,” Jon muttered, pulling away and brushing his lips on Arya’s forehead. Cupping her jaw in both hands, their brother pulled back slightly to regard her. “Now, I know nothing…” he said, sniffling as a soft laugh wiggled out of his bobbing throat.

“I used to be no one,” Arya whispered, smiling up at her beloved brother. After a tick, her brows flattened as her lips parted. “We’re Arya and Jon of House Stark. It’s in our blood.”

Footsteps echoed along the hallway Sansa dwelled in, ricocheting and bouncing around her until the noise made her look over her shoulder. The pace was irregular but insistent, heavy and unpredictable. Its tone was a bit wider and scratchier than those of Northmen’s boots. Swallowing, the Lady of Winterfell bit her lip and stepped back from the door, forgetting about the private moment she’d intruded between her family. Rounding the corner, she steadily increased her slow pace as the footsteps stalked after her, trailing after her down each of the random dark halls she aimlessly traversed, set on following wherever the noise and celebration was.

Someone followed her.

The past ripped the present scene away before her eyes, and she was back to running from the gathering of ghosts that yanked at her soul like a noose snapped one’s neck. It was abrupt and stole the breath from her chest. 

Further down the hall she faced, she saw three men lingering. Ramsay stood before the others, front and center stage. There was Joffrey scoffing at her with his signature sneer behind the husband she’d watched die. Though when he spoke, she heard nothing. Ramsay’s pleasant, haunting voice gutted her, and she struggled to stand, opting to reach out for the nearby stone wall for support. The words were quickly overshadowed by Littlefinger’s airy chuckle, the man leaning against the wall almost fully cloaked in darkness.

Before the tears she fought could fall or one of them could mutter anything else, a hand cupped her shoulder, and she jumped away, the back of her head slamming into the hard stone with a ferocious, familiar force.

Tormund ripped his hand away from her, holding both hands over his shoulders while he backed away. “It’s me, Lady Stark,” he shouted, appearing like she’d given him a bit of a fright, too. 

Neither of them had much experience interacting with the other. They were like passing ships that had sailed along the same course a thousand times suddenly colliding. Sansa placed her palm over her heart, thankful she’d not squealed or shrieked. Attention was no longer something she preferred.

“What are you doing following me?”

The Free Folk leader drew his head back and dropped his hands, eyes melting an unusual hybrid of anger and excitement together until they forged an unruly expression on his face. “Following you? I was looking for Jon! We have much to celebrate!”

Sansa’s brows dipped, and she stepped away from the wall to glance down the hall, seeing no one. Searching the darkness, she shook her head and exhaled. “Well, whoever was is gone now,” she muttered, looking the burly man up and down before shaking her head.

Had she only given herself a fright? Usually, she was much more composed and rational, but now that the reality of the future was secure and the threat of life ending, perhaps the carefully crafted armor she’d thought she’d perfected finally cracked a bit. So much had happened to her in such a short period of time. Nearly a decade of pain, death, and chaos was enough to make anyone break. Even a little. This was something she had to contain. Maintaining firm control at all times was something she’d known she’d live with. 

It was hardly a surprise.

“I’m sorry I snuck up on ya, Lady Sansa. What were you looking at, by the way? You looked like the Night King himself was coming to stuff his cock up yer arse or something.” When Sansa’s mouth parted, partially breaking into a small grin, the man cursed. “I shouldn’t have said that...don’t tell Jon I said that to ya. He’s mighty protective of your...whatever it is highborn ladies have.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Tormund,” Sansa murmured, containing the playful grin itching at the corners of her lips. “You’re not headed to the capital with him,” she added when they stared awkwardly around the hall they occupied. 

Sansa wanted to forget about the faces that haunted her, and Tormund had done such a thorough job of eradicating them from her mind for at least the next few minutes. They’d never spoken privately. If she would assume power in the North on behalf of Jon, she supposed she’d have to familiarize herself with him and his people sooner rather than later.

“That’s right.”

“Well, when they ride south, it would please me a great deal to discuss the future of our home with you. The Free Folk have spent too long roaming around in dangerous lands. If it please, we shall talk about getting you and your people a proper home in which to settle.”

“Honestly, I’d thought we’d all just go back North of the Wall or help man the castles up there for a time.”

“The North is your home, Tormund. The North remembers those who aid us. I expect you will have much involvement in the shaping of our home in the years to follow if that is what you wish. I have no interest in keeping you from your duties or your people’s desires.”

Before he could answer, Arya and Jon’s voice trickled to where they stood. Her two siblings made their way over. Sansa and Jon said nothing to each other. Tormund and her brother made passing remarks about sharing one last drink for the night, which Jon protested. Based on his expression, he was on his way to Daenerys. 

Arya linked her arm in Sansa’s and led them back to the room where Tyrion and Theon were. Sansa didn’t look behind her as she left her brother in the dark hall without a word. Upon returning to the room, Jaime sat at his brother’s bedside. Both were tense when the Stark girls emerged from the dark corridors beyond the warm sickroom. Podrick leaned over the table by the fire, quietly snoring. Brienne was out, too. The brothers were the only two still left from the small group earlier. 

Arya claimed a seat beside Podrick and poured herself a cup of the remaining wine. Eyeing the book at Theon’s beside table, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. 

While all of Winterfell waited for the dead to march upon the castle, Theon and Sansa had had a few hours to catch up: alone for the first time since he left her side. He’d briefly mentioned something about how other men were likely going to spend their last night deep in one of the women around for pleasure when she’d seen a group of them enter the castle. That had churned a rare need to provoke a scandalous story about his past. 

Beyond the man he’d become because of her dead husband, she realized she’d never gotten to know the man who felt more of a brother than either of her own blood ones. After shaking the disturbing thought about this conversation potentially being the last they’d ever share, Sansa had pestered him a while to drop even a hint of a morsel of information. Especially since he looked rather eager to reminisce despite his lack of... _that_. 

Theon had goaded her into promising him to reflect on the girl she’d once been—to endeavor to find some normalcy and to embrace her natural sense of virtue. The one thing he’d told her she could offer him was to read to him from one of the stupid books she’d once cherished if he survived. As a girl, they’d been her escape into a magical reality far away from these walls. Now, they served better use for a growing fire.

“Read to us, Sansa.”

Jaime sighed, looking like he’d been told only half a story for which he eagerly awaited the finale. “We were talking.”

“You won’t like it.” Sansa sat down on Theon’s bed and took his hand. Studying his face for any sign of movement, she eventually shoved her mouth to one side. When would he wake?

“I think I’m a bit more than brain dead, sister. I’m perfectly capable of establishing my own opinion.” Arya kicked her legs up onto the table and waved her cup in the air. “Go on…”

“Am I a ghost, brother?” Jaime rubbed his face, turning to shift his gaze between both Stark sisters.

“You do look paler than usual…” Tyrion muttered, sighing and gritting his teeth as he adjusted in his bed. Why he still moved at all was such a simple mystery that bothered Sansa more than it ought to. It wouldn’t do her any good to pay him any particular mind given her lack of total control over her own composure.

“Well, I have it on good authority you, and I quote, much prefer collecting fresh, warm sheep dung with your bare hands than hearing my silly tales of love about gallant knights and stranded princesses lost in a new land.”

Arya chuckled. “Do you remember what I did with all that sheep shit?”

“All too well…” Sansa smirked, brushing her hair over her ear and shaking her chin as she caught her sister’s mischievous, wild eyes. 

A memory stole her thoughts for a second. She was back in the capital taking a walk with Tyrion. Somehow, they’d gotten on the subject of this same topic. She couldn’t help but sigh, remembering she’d bravely uttered the vulgar word for dung to him and Shae. That specific moment in time had been a rare one. Their marriage had offered her a small taste of freedom, and he was a man, according to the unkind rumors, of vast experience. They would never make theirs a love match, but she’d stupidly thought they could at least be friends. She’d had an utter lack of those at the capital. His ability to make her feel as safe as possible had taken root in her tender heart, blooming like a wildflower amidst a charred meadow. He’d offered her the best gift. 

Hope. 

It’s not like she could ever have impressed him then in all her innocence, but she’d wanted to try. The reason hadn’t made much sense then; however, in hindsight, she was uncomfortable with the truth. Sansa needed to shift where she sat, but doing so would probably provide them with enough information to guess her restless disposition. She couldn’t afford to slip any more of her control, so she looked at the book on the table and plucked it from where it lay, bringing it to her lap and flipping through the pages, which felt stiff between her fingers.

“What was it you said to me in the garden, Sansa?”

Lady Stark met Tyrion’s heavy stare. A storm of emotions bubbled in his mesmerizing gaze, but she didn’t follow the urge to decode them. The only thing she paid attention to was recognition. He remembered what she’d told him, but he wanted to coax the memory out of her. 

Precisely like he thought she didn’t remember one of the only moments of their marriage she’d managed to forget about all the pain and heartbreak that had bound them together. Of all the things she’d prefer to forget, the few good memories with him over the years would never make that list.

Rolling her eyes, the Lady of Winterfell sighed. “I believe I called it ‘shift,’ my lord.”

“Instead of shit?” Arya cackled, the laughter bouncing all around the room until, finally, she wiped her eyes and held her stomach. “Oh, that felt good. Thanks for the laugh, Sansa.”

“I was a girl, Arya. I was trapped amongst other _virtuous_ girls who thrived on making my life more miserable. It’s not like I don’t know that I was only a stupid girl then.” The need to defend herself gathered in her throat and burned her chest. She busied her gaze by pretending to read the page she’d opened the book to.

“Sansa, you were never stupid. You were just a fancy girl bred in your own innocence: an innocence I plan to have my part in thoroughly beating out of you if I have to.”

“Well, that’s certainly an image…” Jaime mumbled.

“I’ve endured enough beatings for one lifetime, wouldn’t you say?” 

“Sansa, you know I didn’t mean it like that.” Arya had the decency to look apologetic. She straightened in her chair and lowered her feet from the table. “I only meant…”

“Just because I choose not to use the vulgarities you and the rest of the world seem to enjoy so much doesn’t mean I’m innocent. By that logic, it would be a fair assessment to conclude that Tyrion is also an innocent after suffering through years of celibacy.”

“I know it was only a joke to support your point, Lady Stark, but let’s leave my suffering, as you so _delicately_ put it, out of this conversation,” Tyrion grumbled. The weight of both Lannister brothers’ gazes nearly crushed Sansa, who sharpened her focus on her sister.

Sansa narrowed her eyes. The idea that the Lady of Winterfell should swing backward to who she’d once been or forward to a strange, worldly woman who everyone seemed to believe her to be capable of stepping into almost made her laugh. Honestly, she wanted to cry. The truth was that she would always be caught in an unmoving middle step. If she clung to the last remnants of virtue that still stitched itself to her skin, perhaps she could also hold on to her lost family forever. The memories already blotted on the fabric of her soul as it thinned, staining a wider area, but never the same color that spilled on her. 

“Theon wants me to rediscover the past, and you want to burn it all down. What if I’m just a boring strategist happy with plotting the end of the world?”

“Unlikely, seeing as you had me slit Littlefinger’s throat.”

The mention of that man made her tense, so she cleared her throat and sighed, scanning the fading words on the page open on her lap. Eventually her voice eased, smoothing back to her normal, monotonous blend that would perfectly suit the purpose of helping others fall asleep. When Sansa finished her fifth page, Jaime stumbled back to his cot, now strategically positioned beside Brienne’s, and closed his eye. Arya began snoring four more pages in. 

After a few more minutes of flipping the pages, the chapter ended, and Sansa closed the book, sneaking a glimpse at Tyrion. For once, he didn’t stare back. Readjusting the pelts over Theon, she kissed his forehead and forced herself to remain at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter went through several rewrites. Sorry for the massive delay! I struggled with this chapter because I'm most eager to get Daenerys south and explore Tyrion's POV a bit. Unfortunately, my outline demands much from my patience!


	6. Let It All Come Down Around Us

**Author's Notes:**

This chapter is absurdly late. I've spent a great deal of time writing later portions of this story because I didn't quite have the middle of it nailed down. Only parts. However, if you wish to get a small, out-of-context taste of the story's direction, I encourage you to listen to _Only Us_ by Miracle of Sound! Chapters should be released more frequently now that I'm back on a groove and clear direction!

One last gentle reminder: I don't plan on abandoning any of the wonderful earlier-seasons characterizations of Daenerys! Both Jon & Dany are two characters who won't be getting robbed of genuine endings (whether happy or sad) in this story. However, it should be noted, I devoured happy endings as a reader! I really liked Dany's paranoia, but it's not going to be a death sentence for her. We've seen her do great things in the show, and painting her into the corner of the Mad Queen seems like a cheap way to get rid of her. She will, in this story, be teetering or flirting with "dark" Dany a little.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

_Winterfell_

Tyrion

* * *

Life, to Tyrion Lannister, had always been the one thing more valuable than any weight of gold and the whole of whatever amount of illusion the pleasure of which consuming women and wine had once offered. The concept of it had always been rather simple. He intended to grasp its invisible strings and ride its coattails for as long as lady luck would have him. Of course, there'd been a period in his life where he'd thought luck was simply for people without gold to throw around. Prior to his arrival from the Wall, gold had been the tangible extent of his life. It had been his savior aside from the equal measurements of the respect and fear his name commanded.

Now he was without much of a family left, no riches to clutch beyond the privilege of holding the highest position in Daenerys' council, and no cunts in which to drown. The only drowning he'd fully committed to the last few years had been wine.

Anything to dull the inevitable pain the night always nudged back between the cracks he pretended weren't actually in his mind. Such a loyal friend wine was. It allowed him to forget Shae, his father, and the fact that he, when he'd first escaped Westeros with Varys, couldn't care less about the life for which he'd lusted after all his life.

Seven Hells...now he couldn't even drink it without having someone cram it down his throat. The feel of the dead creature's blade tearing through his skin ripped over him when he moved his small, misshapen hand over his heart. Gritting his teeth, Tyrion gripped the linens of his bed, which was not spacious even to a man of his size, and dug the back of his head into the thin pillow, moving to accommodate all the agony of a thousand blades puncturing his skin for the fiftieth time that morning. Narrowing his lids, Tyrion stifled the thickening in his throat by turning his head toward the empty chair with a thick, southern fairytale occupying the damned spot where the evasive Lady Stark ought to be.

Sansa was gone, no longer keeping her vigil over the same man who'd once betrayed her family. Who hadn't by now? The Starks had once been a bustling family bursting at the seams until Robert Baratheon deemed Ned Stark as the only man fit to be his Hand. Sighing, Tyrion rolled his eyes and pretended to preoccupy his thoughts on anything else for a moment, ripping his gaze from the lonely wooden chair. He'd stirred before the day had risen along the horizon too high. And she'd not been there. Being in-and-out of sleep the rest of the morning, he didn't know if she'd returned if not to check up on those left to dwell in nothing but their miserable thoughts and discomfort.

About the only thing more important to her, it seemed, than watching over the Ironborn traitor was her family. A familiar ache, twisted with a strand of envy and scorn and another of disappointment and agony, dwelled in his gut. Never more in his life did he crave the wine.

Despite the obscene pain tormenting his body at present, the smooth, quiet sound of the Lady of Winterfell's voice had ushered him into one of the most peaceful night's sleep he could remember.

Tyrion had to see her. Soon.

A gentle flutter tickled his burning chest until it settled in his empty stomach. Taking a deep breath and balling each hand until his wrists shook, he closed his eyes as his slow exhale did little to calm him. The worst part was that he was unable to move. He wanted nothing more than to leave this bed and find her himself. So much needed to be said, but the matter of where to, precisely, he'd start exhausted his small, tired, and battered body even more than the injuries imprisoning him to where he lay.

Tyrion remembered everything. The kiss. Her confession. The words he'd once sworn he'd never utter again formed without his permission in his heart, warming his chest until the back of his neck pinched. He loved her, too; though, it didn't align much with any amount of sense. Theirs was a marriage based in everything opposed with affection or adoration; however, he'd begun suffering the side effects of seeing his lovely, lonely wife's tragic smile toward the end of it. At his nephew's wedding, she'd plucked the glass from the ground and gave it to him whilst the real demon continued to mock him. She may not have wanted him in her bed, but perhaps, given a bit more time, she ought to have grown to care for him.

Perhaps he'd already gone mad in his idle prison of a bed. Clenching his teeth and closing his fists until they shook, Tyrion growled. Years of standing beside Daenerys had formed inconvenient habits in him. Apart from the cold, when he'd woken up, he almost thought he was back in Meereen. As if coming back home to Westeros and all that had happened had been simply a bad dream.

Rest never came for a Hand, so he uttered the name he always did when he was woken suddenly. As he stirred, all illusion faded until sharp claws sank into his small body, only stopping once the skin yanked clean off of him. With it, the torrential hit of pain swarmed until he'd opened his eyes, a gentle touch at his cheek provoking a fraction of a second's peace.

Tyrion had spent a bit of time observing Sansa: both in their time together as husband and wife and once he'd returned to Winterfell. And in no other moment had she mesmerized him more than catching the remnants of the worry lines disturbing her otherwise perfect face. Her hair glowed as the snapping fire framed her from behind, illuminating the rich, expressive eyes she would rarely reserve for him when he managed to make her laugh. The life in her pale eyes zapped away, slipping behind the insufferable mask she hid behind. Though it was a common tactic in King's Landing, witnessing her ability to quickly shift back to it had provoked memories of Littlefinger in the rare moments they'd interacted alone.

Tyrion couldn't read the lady she'd become, but it didn't take a genius to understand he'd said his queen's name aloud. Nothing quite diminished her glow like even the mention of the Targaryen queen's name.

As he'd tasted death's flavor down in the crypts, Sansa had held his ugly, awkward body in her arms, positioning him in a way that the ends of her hair had whispered against his bare throat. That stoic face broke, and it was all because of him. The same torn feeling mirrored from his heart to her wild expression. The lifelong fear of dying withered when her pale eyes anchored on his. Breathing was nearly impossible. When he tried speaking, the maws of a thousand fire-breathing dragons snapped up and down his body, pulling him apart from within. Thoroughly sliced and silenced, he bobbed his throat when the sharp details of reality blurred. The only thing left in this life he saw was Sansa Stark.

She eased him down and worked her dragonglass dagger through his thick clothes, carefully pulling them apart to peruse his body. Though his head felt light, he managed to watch her as she surveyed the damage on him.

Tears brimmed in Sansa's eyes. Her plush bottom lip parted, trembling as her chin shook. "Why would you do that?" she whimpered, watching him as he instinctively tried to reply and failing miserably. The force rocking her shaking chin sent a teasing prick at Tyrion's palm. He wanted the sad look on her breathtaking features to ease. When they married, she'd smiled so little. The Lady of Winterfell was a woman who deserved happiness and more.

Tyrion reached for her cheek, but pain ripped through his body. He was no warrior. While he was not built to endure such agony, his heart warmed a little knowing he'd spared her from further torture. Parting his mouth, he tried to speak again, failing a second time.

"Why would you save me?" Sansa whispered, holding his hand down. The small gesture not only ricocheted tight, pinching sparks all over his body, but she'd also helped settle him a little.

Life hadn't ever been fair for the Halfman, so it seemed appropriate for him to revel under the splendor of an inconvenient and unexpected truth seconds before his life would surely end. Though he was a man of knowledge and reason, Tyrion had always drowned in a deluge of desperation and loneliness, a need to be loved as ardently as he loved things he could never have. Finally, at the end of his life, he'd witnessed the look he'd always imagined his mother might have given him had circumstances been any different.

The way she had searched his eyes as their people beyond the grave they took cover behind perished made his breath and body tremble. It wasn't a valiant knight or a bulky lord she clung to. It was the Imp, a man so worthless when it came to protecting those he loved. Despite the thick layers sheathing their hands, the heat of her palm radiated in his, an amplified shock binding him at her side.

The expanse of a lifetime fit into the tight confines of the final moments leading up to the blur and bending of time when the monster raised its blade to Sansa, the woman who'd not yet released his hand from the moment he'd kissed the back of her gloved hand. She'd ducked away from the first of its attack, but she wasn't a warrior either. Tyrion's limited experience in the field of battle made him hyper-aware of the fact that the next swing would end her, a woman still so young and destined to change the world as she saw fit.

Somehow, he'd managed to shove her away. Tyrion Lannister had saved Sansa Stark. Yet, the gods had given him another chance at life. The logistics of how or why seemed foolish and small compared to the texture of her whisper, three monumental and chaotic words, ringing in his mind as he relaxed on the bed.

The thick door across the room groaned open. Daenerys emerged from the shadows of the quiet hall beyond. Tears poured down her face, and the dull glow of the fire blurred her flawless skin as she regarded Theon's still body, which faced the wall from the angle Tyrion lay. The urge to shift in the uncomfortable bed was growing to be a temptation stronger only for his need to drink an endless supply of wine. The queen leaned back against the door, bottom lip trembling and eyes narrow. The way she regarded him would have paralyzed him had he the luxury of mobility. Something was truly wrong.

"Your Grace?" he said, flinching at the raspy, airy scratch burning his throat. He hadn't spoken in hours. "Theon's not budged a muscle since the Long Night and Ser Brienne and Jaime were given the essence of nightshade hours ago," he uttered, swallowing as he examined the petite queen. Scrunching his brows together, he grunted as he stopped himself from sitting up. "What is it?"

Daenerys shook her head, her tears highlighting her high cheekbones. The dark circles underneath her violet glare made him pause. "What do you know?" she seethed, her accusations laced with a breath she choked on. Remaining at the door, she almost snarled at him. "I know she's told you!"

"About?"

Daenerys rushed toward him, looking down at him like he was garbage. "You know what! Sansa must have told you everything by now if the reports are true…" The queen's mouth trembled as one of her eyes twitched. Covering her hand with the back of her wrist, she looked away and sobbed. "Things should have been so different!"

"Your Grace, I assure you she has said less to me than even I expected upon our arrival," Tyrion answered, wincing at her disheveled state. Her hair was frizzier than he'd ever seen it, and she slouched when she walked as if she wanted to shrink into the stone floor.

"Missandei saw enough down in the crypts to know that's not true!"

A weight burrowed in his throat as his blood ran cold. The way she looked over him frightened Tyrion until his soul felt hollow. Whatever it was over which she worried made him squirm. Sansa was in the direct path of whatever fury she tried to bury in Daenerys' features. The madness was brimming at the surface of them, violently thrashing and waiting until she would only give into it. He'd barely scraped by with his life, and it was then he decided he would devote the rest of it all to protecting Sansa.

Regardless of whatever anyone saw down there, he had a game to play. It had always protected him in the end, knowing how to sneak through and weave between the lines of the rules and expectations.

"Daenerys, I barely remember what happened down there myself. I assure you I'm still your Hand."

"I don't believe you, Tyrion! How could I? Missandei and Varys said you two spoke...that you suggested you both should have stayed married. She said something of your divided loyalties being a problem."

"None of that suggests I would betray you, Daenerys."

"Doesn't it?" Daenerys threw herself onto her knees as she lowered herself to be face-to-face with him. Cupping his bare chin in her palm, she squeezed a bit harder than he could tolerate. When he grunted, she parted her lips and exhaled. "I've respected you and your feelings for me this long, but I refuse to lose everything I've earned because I trusted the wrong people, Tyrion. You've pined for me for how long? Time and again, your plans failed me. How many times must I suffer on your behalf?"

"Daenerys, I truly don't know anything that would spark a fraction of your current concern."

"No? So she didn't tell you about her plan to assassinate your sister? Arya left sometime last night with the Hound. The plan is to cut Cersei's throat to spare the masses of King's Landing's lives. Do you believe her to be the sort of girl who would spare any part of the south's wellbeing a waking care or thought, Tyrion?"

Tyrion's chest deflated. Swallowing, he dropped his gaze from the queen's and closed his eyes. Despite all their differences and all the reasons—legitimate or false—Cersei wanted Tyrion dead, she was still his sister...a sister carrying his niece or nephew. His whole body shook, but he opened his eyes, unable to stop the tear from dripping down the side of his face.

Daenerys' glare melted, and the harsh, bitter anger diminished as she caught her breath. "You didn't know," she whispered. Releasing his chin, she leaned away from him but remained where she sat.

"No," he muttered, clearing his throat and sighing. His voice sounded so small. Daenerys reached for his hand, but she hesitated just before they touched. After a moment, she withdrew the gesture. Tyrion relaxed where he lay. The back of his hand warmed as the ghostlike peace of Sansa's touch he'd committed to memory resonated there. It disappeared a second after, and his chest sank as he cleared his throat.

Catching her face in her hands, she sniffled and brought them back down on her lap. "Tyrion, I feel so lost here. The world seems so close to ripping away from my grasp, and I don't know what to do or how to fix it. I spent so many years dreaming about what it was like over here whilst on the run from the assassins and such. Every dream I've ever had seems to have spoiled overnight. Westeros is nothing like I imagined..."

"Do you regret coming?" he eventually asked.

"I…" Daenerys paused, contemplating a few things, before adding, "I regret certain things after we arrived. I miss my child more than anything. Viserion won't be forgotten. But, even after everything...all the pain and mistakes, I know my place is on the Iron Throne."

"I believe that, too."

"Then why do I get the feeling you're not going to be there with me in King's Landing when I take my throne?" Daenerys wiped a few tears away and shook her head.

"Yes, well, I'd rather be indisposed any other way than what I am." Tyrion managed to readjust a little, but he stopped as soon as even a pinch bloomed in his chest. "I honestly don't know how Jon Snow or any other warrior suffers this for any scratch or cut. It's worse than anything I've ever endured to be sure…"

Daenerys smirked, one Tyrion almost shared. But it died as quickly as it formed on her lips. "You know that's not what I meant…"

"Of course it's not what you meant."

"Tell me you're coming to King's Landing as soon as you are reasonably able."

It was a command. The way her mouth pursed and eyes widened expectantly signaled as much. Just a few days ago, he believed he would have done anything to keep this woman happy. That seeing death so intimately when it meant saving Sansa's life in place of his own had thrown away all the feelings he felt imprisoned by and bound to so quickly nagged at Tyrion's thoughts.

"I don't plan on staying in Winterfell, Daenerys."

The reply left the option of possibilities in his favor. Plans changed all the time. One woman held so much power over his future. It almost frightened him. Here he was willingly breaking all the vows of keeping every woman at arm's length until his dying days for the Lady of Winterfell—all because of three dangerous words. His celibacy had never been part of that. That had predominantly been a circumstantial accident due to Daenerys' reign always being in jeopardy in both Essos and Westeros. The problem with his vows is that his arms didn't quite stretch quite as far as other men's. Always a man of the self-deprecating breed, Tyrion softly eased a light chuckle from his scratchy throat, catching her attention.

"That doesn't quite sound as reassuring as the way I worded it…"

Despite a veiled threat piercing the playful warmth of her honeyed voice, Daenerys touched his ankle, her touch wayward and foreign even under the pelts Sansa had left over him overnight. Although it was certainly the most intimate they'd been with each other, Tyrion sighed, not at all feeling anything he often once imagined by just being in her vicinity.

"Tyrion, you must get better. You'll have your hands full once you return to King's Landing as my Hand. I'm relying on you to show me everything you must to ensure my rule is a success."

The words sounded more like a wish rather than an intention. Perhaps it was the way she scrunched her mouth to one side and slouched a bit more...but she certainly did not need him to do that. She'd have Varys, a master of veiled threats and double-meaning idle banter and flattery. Regardless of the lack of possibility for Jorah's love to ever be reciprocated, he would make sure she was safe. Always. No one was more loyal to her than him. Beyond that, she'd likely take Jon from the North. How he'd fare in the south was even more uncertain than how Tyrion would fare in the North.

"Of course, Your Grace."

"I need you to do something for me while you're here."

"Of course…"

Daenerys lifted her hand off of him, staring at hers like it was a brand new limb on her own body. Biting her bottom lip, she leaned over and lowered her voice. "Keep a close eye on Lady Stark. Report anything suspicious back to me. No matter how small or curious it is."

"What's happened?" In the slew of confusion and alarm, Tyrion could say anything else.

"I suspect she'll plot my murder, too, upon my leave here."

"She won't."

Daenerys drew her head back and gasped. "Such conviction in my foreign enemy…"

"Daenerys…" Tyrion closed his eyes to attempt to sharpen his focus. The ice was thin wherever the Targaryen walked. Those around her almost played a part in a game with entirely different rules. Despite him possessing an impressive skill in hiding some of his thoughts and secrets from resting on his sleeves, he feared the woman on his bed. Daenerys was a queen to be equally as righteous as much as some feared her. And Sansa had caught on to it. He was sure others suspected it, but none had so blatantly called him out. "Lady Stark is not an enemy. And, whereas you have two dragons to speak of your power, the Lady of Winterfell is aware that, politically, she matches that power."

"You sound as though you admire that in her...You're certainly impressed by her. You've fawned over her practically since you stepped out of your carriage, Tyrion."

Daenerys was intentionally being cruel to him. Although Tyrion knew they weren't in as good standing as before they landed at Dragonstone, but it was easy for her favor to evaporate. Swallowing, he sighed. Softly, he asked, "Did you come here to seek advice from your Hand, or have you already named me a traitor, Your Grace?"

The longer she stared at him, he had no choice but to surrender to the possibility of his death after all. He held onto his breath until she exhaled and looked down at her lap. "Jorah will assume your role until you can ride south. However, until we leave Winterfell, I'd like nothing more than your honest counsel." Although the words spilled from her mouth with disarming ease, they sounded rehearsed, as if someone else had scripted them for her.

"Alright, then…" Tyrion replied weakly. Clearing his throat, he said, "Lady Stark has family in two southern kingdoms under your rule, the Riverlands and the Vale. Should you stay to a careful path, the starving and forgotten people of King's Landing and the Crownlands should welcome their rightful queen without much trouble. Though, I suspect, those outside of the capital may be more forgiving toward the daughter of Ned Stark.

"Some of the prominent and lesser houses in Storm's End will be sympathetic to House Stark. And Dorne may follow suit, as your allies were captured by my sister...and most likely are dead. Not to mention all of House Lannister's enemies...my brother will be here in the North, so at least that complicates things a bit. The Westerlands, Stormlands, and the Reach are yours to delegate to your allies as you see fit, but it would be foolish to assume the Iron Islands will stand with you. Theon and Lady Stark's complicated history may be enough to break Yara's alliance with us."

"You've thought all this out…"

Tyrion shook his head. "Your Grace, for all of my many failures of late, I do know how politics in Westeros work. My point is that neither of you can live in peace without the support of the other. Westeros will not survive another war amongst itself. Not in Winter."

"Jon will be in King's Landing with me. Who's to say those in favor of House Stark wouldn't stand with me?"

"A bastard will always have a significantly less claim than a natural-born offspring. Some may sway because they believe Jon to be easier to manipulate to their agendas, but I can assure you that most, if not all, of the worthy, better allies will rally under her banner."

"Another war would not happen if she were dead before I left."

Tyrion's mouth flattened as a glare darkened his features. "You're wrong." His voice sounded more like a growl as he coiled his hands until his wrists shook. Daenerys drew her brows together. Parting her lips as if to speak, he winced as he made a quick move to sit up. Clutching the pinkish bandages on his chest, he roared as his injuries beat him back down onto the bed. He felt a hand move back onto his deformed leg, but the touch almost went fully unnoticed as the blinding agony ripped through him. Grinding his teeth together, Tyrion groaned out a slew of curses until the world burned a bit less. Almost suffocating on a few deep breaths, he eventually relaxed.

"Kill her, and you'll have an agile assassin and brooding half-brother slaughtering you before your reign begins."

"She cannot be allowed to continue to defy me! I am her queen!"

"You are…"

"Then what am I to do?"

Tyrion stared up at Daenerys like nothing in the world made sense. "I'm not entirely sure, Your Grace."

The queen rolled her eyes, removing her hand on him to join her hands in her lap. "The one who sits on the Iron Throne rules the Seven Kingdoms, Tyrion. And we both know she won't let the North's independence go..."

"You've already committed to giving the Iron Islands' independence back…"

A rather distant cry of what sounded like one of her children carried into the room through the thin crack between the two wooden shutters on one of the windows. A howl soon followed. Daenerys checked over her shoulder, but she eventually glanced back down to her lap, swallowing and squirming like she tasted something odd. "Tyrion, I see the conflict in Jon's eyes when he's around me. Varys says he's loyal to me without question, but something in my gut tells me I shouldn't trust him like he expects me to. Jorah, Missandei, and Greyworm are the only ones I know who are truly loyal to me. And then there's you…"

"Me?"

"I know you're slipping away from me…"

"Daenerys, I'm not planning on staying here, nor have I conspired anything sinister against you with anyone. I am your Hand. I am loyal only to you." The words tasted like poison, but he knew he had to say them.

"Well, then." The queen leaned over him until the ends of her unkempt, messy white hair tickled his bare shoulders. Her face was so close to his. When he tried to protest, Daenerys grabbed his chin and forced him to stare in her violent gaze. "If you do not return to me, Tyrion Lannister, not only would I feed your brother to Drogon in pieces, but I will personally see that Sansa watches as her precious family home and people burn. And only when she's alone in a fiery, frozen wasteland would I...well, you wouldn't like what I would do with her. Sansa won't take anything else from me. Not even you."

Every inch of Tyrion's body trembled, amplifying the agony until it echoed in his soul. Each feature on his mangled face twitched as he glared up at the queen he'd been so sure was his purpose only days ago. If her intention was only to provoke or test him, Tyrion knew he'd failed. The cold zapped against his bare shoulders, the pelt, and bandages doing little from stopping the feeling lather over his skin as if it bathed him. A wild horde of dangerous words settled on the tip of his tongue. Only the thin control he managed to conjure stopped them from toppling down her fragile empire. Daenerys didn't back down, not for a second dropping her venomous stare from his.

Swallowing, he parted his lips, holding his voice hostage until he felt at all in control. Tyrion had had much better luck with hiding Shae in a sea of snakes back in the capital; yet, now he could barely compose himself when the stakes were too high for a man like him. North and south would switch, and his world would overturn and turn to dust if anything happened to Sansa. "You—"

The door screeched open, catching them both off guard. Bran emerged from the hall outside with Varys pushing him quietly behind. One of the few he trusted and considered a friend, the Spider stopped rolling the chair to close the thick door behind him.

"Apologies, Your—"

"I've seen quite a lot of history. You'd be surprised how much the books got wrong. They spoke of mighty heroes and impossible stakes, but history is only written by those who win the wars." Bran Stark stared at Tyrion for a second before he lazily tangled his dark gaze on Daenerys. "In the end, the cruel so often consume the just."

"Varys why did you bring him here? I must speak with Tyrion privately."

The Spider opened his mouth to speak, but the boy spoke before he could answer their queen. "You're not all that alone, Your Grace."

Tyrion watched the queen switch her glare from him to the three people occupying the other beds in the room. At least one of them likely was awake, but no one so much as twitched. Gritting her teeth, Daenerys stood, smoothing her hair and prying her shaking hands open at her sides to attempt to look relaxed.

"Why are you here?"

"I saw something you needed to hear." Bran's voice was euphoric, yet somber. Monotonous, but peaceful.

"About?"

"My sister, Sansa…"

Daenerys looked down at Tyrion over her shoulder, a dark smirk working at the corner of her mouth. She quickly returned her attention to the young Stark. "Speak, then."

"The Dothraki don't belong here, Your Grace."

"They have nothing to do with your sister," Daenerys shouted. The queen fisted each of her hands.

"You're wrong," Bran interjected, his tone soft, gentle, and haunting. No emotion lingered on his face. "A man...Losho...has watched my sister for a couple of days, stalking her when she walked alone in the dark halls of the castle just last night. But he lost the opportunity to hurt her. Tormund found her first."

The air stung Tyrion's wide eyes until tears formed. Swallowing, his throat clogged as he lost the air in his chest. "Bran, where is she now?"

Daenerys rushed to Bran's chair, planting her hands on either armrest as she leaned in closer to him. "My Khalasar would never do that. They only follow my direct orders, and I have not ordered anyone to harm her!"

No matter how much he tried to stand, he lay on the bed as useless as he felt during the Long Night. Growling, he gripped the bedsheets in his palms and switched his gaze to Varys. "Find her!"

Varys rushed out of the room, but his footsteps out in the hall stopped abruptly. Rather quickly, Jorah entered the room, instantly, reaching for his queen and grabbing her by her shoulders. "Your Grace, we must leave at once!"

Tyrion choked on a violent sob. "No!"

Varys came back in just as the bed where Theon occupied rustled. Tyrion saw the Ironborn reach for his blade, unsheathing it and holding it between him and Daenerys. Jorah shoved her behind him and quickly readied his sword at Theon.

"Is she dead, Bran?" Theon asked, shaking as he gripped his side.

"Put down your sword, Theon," Daenerys ordered.

Theon's chin shook as he took a deep breath. Shoulders moving back, the man took his full height, unlike all the times he seemed to look like his bones turned to jelly. "No."

Tyrion scrunched his eyes closed. His whole body felt hollow, like the very blood flowing in his body had turned to ash. The room's warmth fell away as the pain irritating the open lashes across his body ricocheted everywhere, consuming his mind as a faraway memory nestled in his heart.

_One day I pray you love someone. I pray you love her so much, when you close your eyes, you see her face. I want that for you. I want you to know what it's like to love someone, truly love someone, before I take her from you._

Loving Sansa hadn't happened suddenly or in the space of a second. It had been a steady course to this moment. Teetering at the edge of hell, Tyrion imagined what sort of life the two of them could have found had things at the capital been different. There had been no room for him in her bed or heart in the beginning. But he knew it could have grown to a quiet and amicable understanding. Maybe even love. Perhaps it had always been there, nestled between them waiting for her to bloom further into her broken beauty or for him to abandon the hope of pleasing his father. The possibilities of what could have been shattered the remnants of his already shredded soul. Hot tears eventually prickled his skin, an abandoned chill rocking up and down his spine until his legs no longer felt the plush pelt over him.

It didn't have to be Cersei. At this moment, hate drowned him, dulling each one of his senses until he swam in the depths of his sins. Daenerys would do for the storm raging within him. And when he glared at Daenerys, the image of his sister melted into the queen he'd brought here. Whether she or he died, it didn't matter. Better him because he would find a way to reach Sansa wherever she was. The gods, life, and the dragon queen be damned.

The ruckus stirred Jaime and Ser Brienne, who both turned on their other side to see what the commotion was. Neither seemed to catch on until Jaime stumbled out of his cot and crawled to hold Brienne down when she saw Theon holding his sword at Jorah. His brother could not hold down the brutish knight for long in his condition.

"Where is Lady Stark?" Brienne roared, not minding any of her injuries to pry herself to sit up.

"She was at the weirwood tree. It's one of the few places here where no one bothers her. She can be alone," Bran told them, his voice flat and devoid of life. "He found her...started cutting through her clothes. She tried to fight back, but he landed a shallow cut along her collarbone right as Ghost pounced on the man. With Arya gone and most of those who are loyal to my sister are injured in this room, Jon sent him this morning to look after our sister when he saw her heading to the Godswood alone. The only one who has died today is the Lady of Winterfell, Your Grace. Sansa Stark survives..." Echoed shouting disrupted the Three-Eyed Raven, who didn't budge from his rolling chair. Not one muscle.

Color all around the room shimmered as life flooded back into Tyrion's body. He'd missed what it was she yelled, but he'd heard the familiar melody of her voice followed by a swift reply from her half-brother. And with it, all the pain.

* * *

**Please leave your thoughts! Reviews help me know I'm doing something right. I'd love to hear what you think!**


	7. The Truth

**Author's Notes:**

Right off the bat, I want to blast a _**light trigger warning**_ (mentions of past rape and trauma) for this chapter. This is where we enter into the next section of this story! I can't wait to get to the romance, but for now, enjoy this chapter! Thanks so much. Also, please consider leaving your thoughts in a review.

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**Chapter 7**

_Winterfell_

Sansa

* * *

The room’s warmth burned her even from out in the hall. Jon continued his vigil as her shadow, stopping when she did as she finally reached the threshold. A thick, black, and bloody braid in her fist swayed as the weight of the faceless severed head wobbled at her side. Though the skirt of her undergarments remained mostly intact aside from a tear up to her right knee, the sleeves and a portion of her midsection were battered. Pale skin peeked through the dried, sticky blood drenching her body. The cream color of her tattered garments stained varying shades of red and pink.

“Sansa, take my cloak!” Jon insisted behind her, the heavy cloak she’d made him ages ago clenched and stretched out to her in his fists. “You’re a lady, and it’s winter! No one should see you like this!”

“If I have to see it, then let them suffer, too!” Sansa shouted, an explosion of unbridled fear and fury melting the mask from her face for a second. Catching her breath, she tightened her grip on the mongrel’s braid.

“Sansa, please don’t do this. She’s not going to hurt you anymore! I’m so sorry for bringing her here...” Jon said. 

When Lady Stark stepped toward the room, her brother grabbed her by the elbow, and something inside her snapped. It wasn’t Jon Snow who handled her. The rough touch of a foreign savage had her on her knees from behind, his unkempt fingernails digging into her scalp as he pulled her hair back to whisper something in his tongue in her ear. 

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

_The morning light glinted off of a dirty knife blade, but he was infinitely faster than a lady with no combat or self-defense training or knowledge. He shoved the filthy knife against her throat._

_“No move,” he ordered as Sansa watched the red leaves of the tree that she hated and loved. When all she did was choke on her erratic breaths, he readjusted the knife in his palm and reached for the collar of her black fur cloak. Slicing through the strings holding it in place, he cast it away from them. Flashes of the past tangled with the present, and it only took a few seconds for Ramsay’s touch to replace the Dothraki’s. It was something she’d never forget. Though an adept hunter, fighter, and killer, Ramsay’s hands had been softer than she’d imagined during their wedding night. His fleeting smiles were like the wind: gentle for a minute and a frozen tempest the next lifetime Nothing about him had made sense, but his signature had branded her forever._

_Sansa cried out when he ripped open the thick layers of her gown, winter’s grasp nothing new but unexpected on her bare skin. The lady grabbed her elbows as the shiver sliced straight down her spine. When her gown pooled at her ankles, the Dothraki warrior chanted something, the noise piercing her ears until they rang. Gritting her teeth, Sansa caught her breath as his hands cupped her small breasts more roughly than Ramsay ever had. Tears poured over her face when he said something else in his native language. When she yelped, his body rocked as a violent laugh ripped through his chest. Shortly after, his hand slid far down her body to the place where all the pain used to start. Closing her eyes, she allowed the warm tears sliding down her face to freeze, momentarily distracting her from feeling anything else._

_Sansa would not live through this again. This man had to kill her before it could happen. Feeling and fear flooded her, and she knew she needed to provoke him in some way. He had a blade, so all he had to do was stab her in her chest somewhere, and she could bleed out and die hopefully long before he had his way with her fully._

_After all, what chance could a lady stand against a wild, ravaging beast?_

_The memory of the crypts popped into her head as the man slid the knife under one of her undergarment’s sleeves, cutting through it with expert ease. Tyrion had killed a White Walker on his own, and he was a dwarf. Catching her breath, the chaos calmed until she could leverage some of her signature control back. A dwarf had saved her life. It was Tyrion who’d taken several lashes. He’d endured._

_Perhaps she could, too._

_Hope and a strength she’d never known sharpened her mind. Frantically throwing her gaze from side to side, Sansa steadied her eyes on his knife sliding across her body to the other sleeve. Each breath stabbed her stomach, the wind picking up and slamming the cold against her. Teeth chattering, she swallowed and caught her breath one last time. Quickly cupping her fisted hand in the other, Sansa rammed her elbow back into his side with as much force as she could muster, but the knife dug into her skin, ripping the sleeve in the process as she was knocked forward down to the snow._

_When hands did not reach for her, she sat up, turning to watch as Ghost ripped the Dothraki’s thick clothing to shreds. Sansa searched for the knife, eventually finding it next to the man’s trembling hand as Ghost bit into his face. Blood sprayed at the rip of her skirt, fresh and warm blood warming her skin. Sansa Stood, stumbling toward the foreign warrior’s twitching, barely living body._

_“Ghost, stop...”_

_The pure white direwolf obeyed. He didn’t have to, but he heeded her order._

_The Lady of Winterfell gripped the knife and switched her gaze between it and her attacker. The bridge between the past and this moment blurred until it was Ramsay’s mangled body before her. Gasping, Sansa fell to her knees and crawled the rest of the way to the dying man. A part of his jaw had been ripped off of his body. The darker skin and wide, dark eyes contrasted so much against the white scenery around them that his blood spoiled. All the hatred, fear, and fury twisted, spiraling like a violent gale within her until she anchored her heart around the warmth that vengeance offered, even a moment of it._

_Shivering, Sansa lost control of herself and rammed the knife down on his throat. Over and over again. Blood sprayed her hair, dripping over her temples and lips. More and more warmth coated what was left of her clothes and body until it shielded her for a few seconds from the bitter, icy air. The man twitched as he drowned in his own blood, but she did not stop. She stabbed him until the bone of his spine made it difficult to cut further. Gripping the knife between both hands, she leveraged the extra strength and eventually severed the man’s head._

_From somewhere distant, one of the dragons roared. The knife tumbled out of her fingers as the air quickly began to harden on her skin. Sansa simply stared down at the man’s poorly detached head, finally understanding a part of why people killed. Almost in a trance, the lady swallowed, ignoring Ghost’s nudge against her face. The tears soaking her lashes weighed her lids down. The direwolf howled, finally pulling her out of her stupor. Looking behind her shoulder, Sansa saw a dragon’s figure in the distance approaching the area._

_“Ghost, run!”_

_The direwolf only moved when she reached for the long braid of the man’s severed head and stood, taking off in as fast of a run as she could muster in her condition. The cold had finally pricked her with a force of thousands of needles. He never left her side. Not even when toppled over on her hands and knees when the ground shook behind them. Ghost whined, but he matched her slow pace, moving close enough to where she could throw her arm around his neck for support and warmth. Most of his fur was soaking, stained red._

_By the time she reached the castle, Podrick found her, body mangled and cloaked in fresh blood, clothes properly destroyed, and strands of hair clumping and soaked like icicles. When he tried to touch her, Sansa recoiled like an unbroken horse. His kind eyes quickly understood, and he’d taken her back to the unsteady safety of the castle. It hadn’t taken Jon long to find her in her horrific condition. Somewhere between both men, Ghost had disappeared outside. Lord Royce had been the one to answer her about where the queen was, ever a faithful and protective ally. All the while, the severed, shredded head swayed at her side. The shock didn’t wear off until she climbed the steps up to the sickroom._

_Hell would pay today._

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

With the back of her free hand, Sansa slapped Jon, dried blood smearing on his face and disappearing into his facial hair. Tears stung her eyes, but she would not let them fall. Chin trembling, she glared down at him as he looked away from her into the room. “Don’t touch me,” she retorted, moving into the room. 

Over her shoulder, her brother followed closely after her and stupidly yelled, “There _will_ be justice! No one else will ever hurt you. I won’t ever leave you alone again!”

For some reason, Sansa fixed her eyes on Varys as she replied, “There’s no justice in this world. Not unless we make it.” The words weren’t hers, and it only took the Spider a few seconds to see it, to picture the real man behind her spoiled innocence. The one she’d never get the luxury of forgetting. 

Daenerys and Jorah were the closest to the door, and she strolled past them, revealing Theon standing with his weapon drawn. They exchanged a brief stare, but Sansa quickly choked on an overwhelming gasp. Rushing to his arms, the lady sank her face onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed. His arms folded around her and were a fortress of limited protection. Neither worried over all the blood. Opening her eyes, Lady Stark was disarmed by Tyrion’s vulnerable stare. The bulk of all the pain and fear boiling within her fell away in a single stare. Theon pulled away, but Lady Stark remained locked onto the man in the bed.

Emotion stirred within her chest, answering the questions that the gravity in his gaze asked of her. Choking on a whimper she found a way to conceal, Sansa held onto the breath she drew to prevent her from falling to her knees. Too many people watched them. Both of them were too open, too vulnerable. The scars along her collarbones burned when he dropped his fractured attention to his family name cleaved into her pale skin. His features broke, and tears slipped down the side of his face and into his darker hair. Without the thick beard, it was easier to spot the lump bobbing at his throat. He’d risked his life to save her. 

Regardless of what had happened to her this morning, Daenerys was once someone he believed in. Right now, she was too dangerous and unpredictable, but she would not stay in the North. The dragon queen’s purpose was at the capital. Cersei had obliterated the Sept, killing thousands of innocent lives. Soon, Cersei would die. The south needed a ruler, and Jon would fall like her father did alone. He, too, had chosen to stand beside Daenerys. The foreign queen and Sansa Stark had to put some distance between them; one had to rebuild their home, while the other had a throne to claim. If one of them could prioritize duty over everything else, perhaps Sansa could be well enough left alone in the North without the constant threat on her life. 

Duty had become a part of the fabric of who Sansa was. Delaying gratification for the sake of her home and house had never been something she ever had to question. But, in order to both be free of Daenerys and ensure the safety of her family, she would have to put great distance between her and Tyrion. When he snapped his gaze back to hers, Tyrion’s features hardened, like he recognized her thoughts. Parting his lips, he shook his head, but said nothing as she slipped back behind the safety of her walls and the mask. 

There was too much she still did not know. Someone wanted either her life or a rift between House Targaryen and House Stark. Perhaps it had been an attempt on her life by the beloved dragon queen. Maybe it was just an isolated attack from a lone man who simply wanted a taste of hurting her. The attention and affection of bad men flocked to her. Over the course of eight or so years, she’d collected an impressive menagerie of them in her memory. Perhaps she was simply cursed with bad luck. The possibilities would keep her and Tyrion apart so long as she desired to protect him as ardently as he’d protected her. If dancing with fire in the game she hated kept him safe, then so be it.

Disengaging with him, Lady Stark met Theon’s eyes and smiled, reaching for his cheek and rubbing his scruffy jaw with her thumb. He nodded to her, which she returned. The weight of their stares unnerved her. Only two people had seen her in such a state of undress. Ramsay and Reek were both dead. Together, they’d learn all about fear. It was only a state of mind. Though its clutches often dragged people further into its pit, a simple choice in overcoming it was perhaps enough to escape. They shared another embrace, and she noted that both of them stood a bit taller now. Her own spine felt more solid than it had in quite a while. Sansa had a few more things left for which to fight.

Several voices delicately called out her name or title, but none of them mattered in this moment. Pulling back from Theon, she cupped his face as they exchanged a sad, understanding nod before Sansa whispered, “What is dead may never die...” 

“But rises again harder and stronger.” Theon’s voice echoed across the room. Only the snapping fire replied. 

Sansa broke their stare, dropping her gaze to view the blood staining the rags in which he’d been left to heal. Swallowing, she regarded her chest. The blood there had frozen in her hazy journey back to the castle, acting much like an adhesive for the rest of her bodice barely covering her breasts. Hugging Theon had thinned the thick layer of crimson along her neck and collarbones, where four words were carved into her: _Lady Bolton_ on one side and _Lady Lannister_ along the other. 

The other words engraved into her were hidden along her stomach, her upper thighs, and hips. _The Imp’s Whore_ hidden on the inside of her thigh just beside her sex and _The Disgraced Daughter and The Demon Monkey_ on the other in the same place. _Little Bird_ vertically carved along her waist _. Traitor’s Daughter_ stretching between her breasts down toward her belly. _Little Dove, Alayne, My Lady..._

Every name anyone else had called her to her face or those she’d heard whispered behind her back. Ramsay had made her spell out each name or insult like he wanted to pluck the very moments from her mind. Like they were all his. Never her name. Anytime she’d uttered her home, house, or name to disobey him in rare moments where the whisper of power and agency had incited a fire within her will, he’d beaten her until she’d finally called herself one of the words he’d already etched on her skin. 

Ramsay had wanted to erase that part of her like he’d obliterated Theon. Every word had been etched in on the parts of her that a mirror would reflect, so she would be privy to them for the remainder of her life. He always took her from behind, so he would get the beautiful expanse of her unmarked back and ass. The words shaped in her mind before she could stop them, his loving reminder he’d always say before the pain started. Folding her arms under her breasts, she gripped each elbow as she shivered, the involuntary reaction her body used to do when he was near her. 

_What man would possibly want a woman so hideous...all beaten and broken? Torture is so beautiful, but even I have standards._

Each word had spared her from another night of her husband’s torment. In exchange for a new word, a knife piercing her skin and the cost of stripping her signature beauty had been more bearable than taking him inside of her or enduring the other atrocities...most she either could not remember or had intentionally forgotten. All of it had started after Reek had revealed to Ramsay her plan to escape. By the time she’d gotten to the words between her thighs, she’d been desperate to recall more insults. 

Sansa had feared what else he would do to hurt her when his first game ended. She’d wanted to play it as long as possible, and confiding in her new husband the words that had once been one of the happiest memories back in the capital she had was a price she would willingly pay. Remembering the limited safety, the illusion of comfort, and the brief moments of the laughter Tyrion Lannister had provided to her while walking in the gardens had saved her mind from losing herself like Theon. 

No one else had ever seen her broken body since except Brienne. None of her handmaidens from when Ramsay was the lord still lived. Meeting Theon’s pale gaze, Sansa shivered, stuttering the restless breath she struggled to exhale. 

It was time to turn around and get back in the game.

When she did so, everyone in the room’s gaze dropped to the two exposed words scarred into her body. Jaime quickly narrowed his eyes and looked over to his brother. Brienne struggled to her feet, but the knight took her place by Lady Stark’s side, saying nothing. Jon diverted his gaze like not looking at them would make them disappear. Varys switched his attention between Sansa and Theon, understanding and sympathy oozing from his secretive expression. Jorah watched those in the room with weapons, staying close to his queen, while Daenerys stepped back, the shock of the lady’s state disarming her fury and dismantling the paranoia swelling in her features. Eventually, the foreign queen’s stare dropped to the mangled severed head.

Sansa threw it at Daenerys’ feet. The dragon queen flinched, eyes sinking closed as she shook. Tears burned the lady’s eyes, but she would not let anything ruin the flimsy control she somehow managed to grasp on her way here. “No more veils or scornful smiles, Your Grace.”

“Sansa, I had no part in what’s happened to you. I, too, was...I would never wish such a fate upon another woman…” Daenerys whispered, regarding the butchered head of her one man in her Dothraki horde. Fixing her pretty violet eyes back on Lady Stark’s vicious state, the foreign queen covered her hand over her hanging mouth, shaking her head until she caught her breath, a clear attempt at clutching onto whatever means of composure she’d had left. Lowering her hands, she gulped, wide eyes darting between the men standing behind Sansa. Finally, she stitched together a small morsel of control and regarded someone at the Lady of Winterfell’s side. “I didn’t _ask_ for this, Jon!” Her chin trembled as she stepped toward him.

Her brother stepped back, holding her wrists when she reached for him. “No…”

“Jon, please don’t do this...I love you!” the dragon queen proclaimed, never sounding more desperate. “Don’t leave me alone in this world…You know of my past!”

“You haven’t been yourself the last few days, Dany!”

Daenerys grabbed his jaw, declaring, “I would never allow anyone to murder or rape a woman in my name!”

Her brother cringed at the mention of rape. “ _Enough_ , Daenerys! You will pay for this,” Jon seethed. “I will kill you myself if you and your horde are still here tonight. And if you manage to kill me before that, I’ll let out my little secret to ensure that someone else gets rid of you!”

Daenerys caught her breath, ripping her hands off of him and sobbing. “Jon...how can you even say that? After everything that’s happened!”

“Look at me and tell me you haven’t made threats on my sister’s life!” Jon roared, waiting for a reply that never came. The dragon queen gripped the fabric of her gown at her stomach, holding in another sob by covering her mouth with the back of her other hand.

The room went quiet. Sansa sighed in sync with Jaime. They exchanged an odd look. One of his eyes narrowed as her brows flattened, a frown working her mouth. This man had once nearly murdered her father in the open streets of King’s Landing. Swallowing, nodded her head once at him, and he seemed to catch a hint of what she meant. 

“Your father learned the hard way what happens when you reveal your grand plans to your unpredictable, ruthless enemy, boy,” Jaime muttered.

Jon unsheathed Longclaw, his body jittery as he curled his lip and moved to Jaime, pinning him against the nearby wall. The crooked knight winced, gripping the wall with his hand as Jon shoved his forearm into the Lannister’s throat. “You Lannisters think yourselves to be so clever. When you’re not slaughtering the other houses of Westeros, you lot waste your time spillin’ pretty threats and empty promises, drinkin’ yourselves into abandon, and fuckin’ your own sister.”

Jaime gagged, but he held out his right arm when Brienne made to move closer. They stared at each other for a moment, but the Kingslayer coughed, snapping his gaze back to her brother. He didn’t try to fight back.

“You betray your oaths to protect bad people who care for nothing else than themselves,” Jon continued. Jaime struggled to breathe, and the two men glared at each other for a moment longer before her brother eased his hold on the taller, older man.

“Is that all I am?” Taking a second to catch his breath, Jaime swallowed, a smirk working the corner of his mouth. Sansa sighed as the elder Lannister brother softly chuckled. “You betray your oaths to protect bad people who care for nothing else than themselves…” Jaime repeated, the words tumbled out of him like a slow snow storm forming along a distant horizon. Drawing his head back, he flattened his brows. “But isn’t that exactly who you are right now? You struggle between two oaths...one to your foreign queen and the other to your sister and house. I see it in your eyes, boy. You’re crushed by the weight of every pledge of loyalty for the sake of honor. They pull you in two opposing directions until you feel your body start to split in half.”

“I’ll kill you here, Kingslayer!” Jon shook, and he slammed Jaime back. Both men breathed erratically as anger swept them both up in its path.

“Lord Snow, I beg you to stop!” Ser Brienne shouted from her cot.

“Jon!” Sansa rushed to her brother, who refused to meet her stare. Immediately, he backed away from Jaime, who fell back against the wall for support. He didn’t sheath his sword. “We can’t fight amongst ourselves or throw threats around anymore! That’s the problem we’re all here to fix, isn’t it? That’s why Daenerys agreed to come here and why you bent the knee in return...”

The man rubbed his face as he searched the floor for the answers to every secret in the world. He struggled to calm down, but when the lady walked to him and touched his arm with her bloody hand, he finally returned her gentle gaze. “Are you hurt, Sansa?”

It was his delicate way of asking her what happened. Sansa forced her mouth wider in a poor attempt to give him a reassuring smile. “Ladies aren’t supposed to talk about the things he did to me...but Ghost stopped him before anything more compromising or painful could start.”

“I shouldn’t have left you alone. I-I…” 

Panic infiltrated the torment on her brother’s features, so Sansa caught him in a tender hug, wrapping her arms around his neck like she’d done when they first reunited at Castle Black. Jon even lifted her off the ground, so she closed her eyes and leaned her head against his. The warmth from the nearby fire and thick clothes he wore surrounded her on all sides, and for a moment, she was back in time in her father’s arms. A weak chuckle broke through her throat. He set her down and moved his hand to cup her face. Pulling away, Sansa moved her hand on top of his as he eased her down to place a familiar kiss on her forehead. 

“I renounce all claim on the North, Sansa. Winterfell is yours.”

Daenerys gasped from behind, and her footsteps drew closer; however, neither sibling looked anywhere else. “You were named king in the North, Jon, and bent the knee to me! The North is not yours to give away…”

“I’ve made my decision, Dany.”

Lady Stark’s breath caught, tears bringing all her walls back down to the ground. “Jon…”

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

Sansa could do nothing except shake her head gently. “There’s nothing to forgive, Jon. You’re my brother, now and always,” she whispered. Eventually, she added, “Even if you’re far away, nothing will change that.”

Jon wiped his mouth, cringing when he saw dried blood on the top of his hand. Tears stung their eyes as they exchanged a heavy look. He sighed, softly laughing as he said, “Back to being a bastard, I suppose…” The hesitation in his features made her choke on a quiet mixture of a chuckle and sob. 

“You’re not a bastard, Jon. You’re a Stark, even if we don’t share a mother…”

Varys sighed, stepping closer to them. Joining his hands at his stomach, the Spider said, “May I suggest an alternative to yet another death or war? Perhaps we should arrange a time to negotiate when Lady Stark is better rested.” Turning his attention to Sansa, he caught her undivided attention, adding, “Diplomacy does often require a most disciplined mind.” He lowered his chin, and narrowed his eyes. He meant Daenerys. Not her.

When no one else said anything, Sansa fixed her pale gaze between Jon and Daenerys. He looked down at the dragon queen like he hated her, while a silent, desperate plea buried in her vulnerable stare up at her brother. 

“I haven't _rested_ since I was a girl riding to King’s Landing,” Sansa said, sounding bored. Regarding Varys, Lady Stark sighed. “Let the War of the Five Kings finally dissolve today.”

Daenerys regarded Sansa, slowly picking up the remnants of her resolve. Her brows furrowed and mouth parting curiously. Tears weighed those violet eyes. “That war has already ended.”

“Not quite, but it will end with us. A treaty of mutual peace,” Sansa said. Lifting her chin with an uneasy breath, she straightened her spine and repositioned her shoulders back.

Daenerys narrowed her eyes, mirroring Sansa’s tight posture. Shoving her pursed mouth to one side, she blinked once and lowered her chin. “Your terms?”

Shaking her head, Sansa softly chuckled, easily slipping inside the mask she’d constructed over years of practice and pain. For a moment, everything slipped away. “I have no terms, Your Grace.”

“I find that a bit hard to believe, Lady Stark.”

“I only have commands.”

Daenerys gritted her teeth. Her nostrils flared as her eyes scorched with the same fury that drowned Lady Stark in this moment. “A queen does not listen to commands, she gives them.”

Sansa paid her retort no mind. “Brienne, you’ll find a sheet of parchment and a quill next to Theon’s cot. Write everything I say down, please,” she gently asked. Jaime grabbed the knight when she nearly fell over upon stepping toward his cot. While Ser Brienne gathered the supplies, Daenerys and Sansa shared a mutual glare. Together, they hobbled over to the round table by the fire, and the elder Lannister brother helped her sit until he collapsed in his own chair. The lady glanced at the table. When the knight was ready, she nodded.

“First, you will train your mongrels how to play nice. Reaving, raiding, and raping never did the Ironborn well. If the Dothraki wish to peacefully coexist in Westeros, they should learn our way of life. Otherwise, some people may mistake their actions as a declaration of war in your name.”

The dragon queen coiled her fists and inhaled sharply, chin trembling. Eventually she repeated, “I had no part in your attack, Sansa.”

“Second, you will marry Jon Snow within two weeks after you take the iron throne to show your good faith in House Stark.” Jon rushed to her and shouted her name, but she held out her hand, and, surprisingly, he made no further comment. “By extension, you will not plot against or harm any member or offspring of House Arryn, House Tully, and House Stark. Any children born from this union shall be known as Targaryen, but they will have a family in the North. Jon will be no less than your king in the south, and you will swear before everyone present that you shall protect him like he was your own blood.”

“You expect me to marry her, Sansa? After everything?” Jon shouted beside her.

Daenerys bared her teeth, her whole body shaking as she tried to step closer to the lady. Jorah caught her elbow, though. “I will do no such thing."

“And third,” Sansa began, not yielding her composure for a moment. Sneaking a quick glance down at her brother, Bran, a flash of her eldest momentarily warmed her cold, lonely, and frightened heart. Once she’d asked him to tell her something about Robb, and he’d chosen to tell her of when he spoke to a distant Lannister relative with commands at his war table. Everything sharpened, like an image in her memory had always been out of focus until this moment. She didn’t remember precisely how Robb looked, but his voice resonated in the back of a distant memory of her family at the table eating together. He scolded Arya for throwing bread at Sansa, who whined to her mother in her squealing, high-pitched tone. 

Switching to the dragon queen once again, Sansa swallowed. “Daenerys Stormborn of many titles, you, your heirs, and all future usurpers will renounce all claim to dominion of the North. From this time to the end of time, we are a free and independent kingdom.” 

Sansa gasped, the texture of the same words Robb once sent to King’s Landing sliding easily off her tongue. Some of the others in the room stared at Bran, who’d spoken in perfect sync with her most of the command. He snagged her attention when the Three-Eyed Raven whispered, “The queen in the North.”

Behind her, Theon echoed the words. “The queen in the North...” 

Looking over her shoulder, Sansa noticed a shy smirk at the corner of his mouth, which she returned. He nodded to her and gently cupped her shoulder in his warm hand. She stared down at his hand as he walked to stand beside her. Flashing her pale gaze back to the foreign queen, she swallowed. “The North also includes everything north of the Wall.”

When she looked back to the table, Jaime had one arm across Brienne’s shoulders as he stabilised her weak, unsteady arm by resting his handless arm against the length of hers. The absence of his hand gave her a full view of what she was doing. When Brienne stopped writing, Sansa shared a mutual nod with her faithful knight.

“I will not agree to _any_ of your terms, Lady Stark.”

“You must.”

Daenerys thinned her lips as she bit them briefly. Rather quickly, Varys cleared his throat. When Sansa anchored her attention on the man, he looked down at Tyrion. Eventually, he regarded his queen. “Don’t you wonder why Lady Stark has not yet declared war? Or rather, isn’t it curious that, even in her current state, she is bringing up demands of peace, specifically? I believe we should be open to hearing out her reasons before we dismiss her...terms.”

While they spoke, Lady Stark took a moment to glance down at Tyrion. He was already staring up at her, looking like she was the center of life itself. Something profound hid within his gaze. Hot tears drowned them both. A lump in her throat threatened to shatter her thin control, but she didn’t want to look anywhere else. 

Tyrion had saved her. Yet he believed in this queen. While she couldn't give him exactly what he wanted of her, Sansa would try to make it a priority to pursue peace as best as she could. For him. Like before with the dagger and assassination attempt, he was lost in the crossfires. Especially now that Littlefinger’s shadow echoed from deep within her soul, tangling with her instincts. This attack was too much to be a mere coincidence. Daenerys, at present, was in no condition to organize such an arrangement. The truth was paramount. Finding it was imperative before either her, Jon, or the dragon queen did anything to break the remnants of their superficial alliance. Fixing her eyes back to the dragon queen, the lady sighed.

“I’ve already rejected them, Varys,” the dragon queen spat.

“Your Grace, it was a rare, unique dagger from an unsuspecting man of a small, insignificant house that almost killed my younger brother all those years ago. My mother believed my aunt’s letter, a fabrication conspired with Littlefinger, who already poisoned her mind and encouraged her unstable nature to blame the Lannisters for her husband’s death. The truth is more important than honor or hate. Lysa Arryn and Petyr Baelish poisoned Jon Arryn to start his war of shadows and chaos. While none of this absolves anything that the Starks and Lannisters have done up to this point, don’t you believe more context paired with a hint of rational thought could have saved thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of lives?”

“Are you suggesting that he somehow cheated death?”

“Not necessarily. There’s too much we do not know. When I had Arya slit his throat, we buried him several miles away somewhere in the forest in an unmarked grave to be forgotten forever. He’s not alive, but men like him never really go away. Daenerys, I knew him better than anyone else. He couldn’t walk through fire, but he was a master of manipulation. He arranged a successful plot to kill Joffrey for good. And he used me, an unassuming and naive girl, to make it possible. Nobody spared him any suspect. Not when Tyrion was the perfect decoy. He would have let him die, and no one would have ever known.

“Lord Baelish was a brothel keeper with unchecked, invisible power. He had dangerous connections to other bad people. Any one of them may know everything else nobody knows about him. He could have left behind a trick or two after his death if he at all suspected that I would betray him to cause the chaos he loved more than he loved me or my mother. He knew how to predict most possibilities well and execute them to exact enough action to regain control to his benefit. He lost his signature precision with me when he gave me to the Boltons, but that doesn’t change anything.”

“Why would anyone carry out orders from a dead man?” Jon asked.

Varys leaned against the nearby wall, sighing and shrugging in perfect unison. “Why indeed?”

“The more important question is what benefit would someone be after by carrying out a dead man’s will?” Tyrion grumbled. 

“Until we know the why, it’s impossible to ascertain anything further.” Sansa bit the inside of her cheek, adding, “Our focus should be on finding out more before we repeat history. Lord Tyrion was wrongfully held captive by my mother and tried by my aunt, and my father paid for that choice.”

“You forget about the false queen holding my throne hostage.”

“No, I’m merely suggesting we once again work together to…”

Daenerys laughed. “Us? Work together? You also forget I will not accept your terms.”

“My _commands_ won’t change, Your Grace; however, I would very much like to explore this possibility given that I was nearly raped and killed again in my own home. Shifting priorities is a common theme of leadership, I’ve found. You go and fight your Last War, and I will find out who is trying to pit our houses against each other with the help of the Spider in the south.”

“No.”

“Your Grace…” Tyrion growled from across the room. “You know if you don’t do this, your reign ends here. The Northmen won’t forget the queen who attacked their lady. If you don’t work with Sansa now, they’ll have little choice than to suspect you did this. The Seven Kingdoms will be right back in yet another war. Didn’t you tell me you wanted to break the wheel? Lady Stark is willing to help see to that, yet you immediately refuse.”

“I refuse because the North is part of my realm. Yet here _she_ is commanding its independence from her queen.”

Sansa sighed. “You spend so much time reminding everyone that you’re our queen. So much so that you’re starting to remind me of Joffrey. You’re not breaking anything, Your Grace. You’re just replacing one spoke with another at this point.”

“Lady Sansa, do not presume to compare me with a monster who oversaw your torment in King’s Landing. You do not know me. You didn’t even try getting to know me. If you were so concerned with peace then, perhaps you should have considered obeying the requests of the queen to whom your brother chose to bend the knee.”

“Why bother with keeping advisors and your Hand around if you’re not concerned with heeding their advice?”

“Why indeed,” Daenerys said, an ominous cruelty lingering in her frozen features. After a moment, the dragon queen reached out for Jorah, who escorted her out of the room, which remained silent until the echoes of her heels out in the hall disappeared.

“You know she would never accept your demands, Lady Sansa. If that was your intention, then I’m afraid you’ve failed,” Varys muttered, rubbing his hands together and breathing into them.

“She wasn’t supposed to accept them. I only wanted her to leave Winterfell. By tomorrow morning, I expect she’ll be preparing for her journey to the capital.”

“Better to send her away to deal with her duties south than to deal with her here in the North. I must say that I’m shocked to see you still standing. Daenerys doesn’t have the best history for letting those who refuse her commands live for very long on this side of the Narrow Sea.”

“Perhaps she’s starting to accept that some of us on this side won’t bend to any fool with a power complex. She could do with a bit more learning…”

“I’d say, if tensions should ever ease in the future, that she could learn quite a lot from you, my lady. Though you’re younger and even possess less leadership experience than her, you know of the horrors people will weaponize against other houses and upon the people of the realm. I half expected you to be more like your father.”

“The North can no longer exist with just a wolf. You have to be more than just a wolf. You need to know when to strike like a lion, when to sing like a mockingbird, when to drown like a kraken, and when to breathe fire like a dragon. If you’re everything all at once, you’re in control of the game in most cases. Part of the game is making mistakes and learning to learn from them.”

“Littlefinger taught you quite a lot, Lady Stark. Though I suspect there were things you knew that he did not. It’s not likely that I’ll bet against you again. I will try to speak with the queen to reconsider perhaps not your commands but, at the very least, the idea of working together toward peace and discovering more about your theory. It’s rather rare that she listens to me, though. I’ll try to rally with Jorah for now.”

It was more than he’d ever spoken to her. A part of her wanted to know why he’d taken such an interest in her, but her curiosity dwindled as she regarded her current state. She wanted nothing more than to rid herself of the savage’s blood. Sansa clutched the fur of Jon’s cloak, swallowing as the cold’s touch started to dull a little.

“Nobody will say anything to anyone,” Sansa quietly spoke, eyes anchoring on the thick, bloodied braid on the floor in the middle of the room. Theon grabbed the pelt on his cot and threw it over the decapitated head. Swallowing, she rubbed her arms, and Jon moved behind her, depositing his cloak over her shoulders. “Even if she leaves, we can’t afford anyone starting a mutiny. We can’t make this go away, though. Too many people saw me enter the castle in this state. They’ll have questions.”

“And how will you answer?” Varys asked from his corner of the room.

“The truth. I was attacked for unknown reasons by someone we’ll find one way or another. If anyone gets suspicious, I’ll handle any calls to raise the banners. The Northmen will stay here to help rebuild the castle. Daenerys has more than enough of her forces left intact to march upon King’s Landing to claim her throne from a dead woman. There’s enough problems here to distract them from igniting a war with Daenerys for a few more months at least,” Sansa replied. 

Switching her focus to Jon, she bit her lip, not concerning herself with the taste of dried blood as she released it. Her brother shook his head. “Absolutely not!”

“Jon, if you’re not there with Daenerys when she rides south and Arya happens to hear about the attack, she’ll assume Daenerys is the enemy. We both know what she does to our enemies.”

“I’m not leaving you here alone.”

Now that the dragon queen was gone, all the fear and pain slowly seeped back into her thoughts. Sansa needed to distract herself, so she could focus long enough on the conversation at hand. The invisible fingerprints started to pinch the skin at her breasts, and she gasped. Swallowing, she searched around the room, desperate for anything to say. Immediately, Arya came to mind.

“She fed Walder Frey’s sons to him...A rather appropriate way for the traitor to die, if you ask me.”

“Why do you know that? Why did she tell you?”

“I’ve been married twice and kept close company with a brothel keeper for a few years. You might blush at the things I’ve seen and heard,” she quietly joked. It was never more vital to keep the air light to keep the horrors away from her thoughts. A hopeful smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. When he sheathed his sword, followed by Theon, he looked at her like she’d confessed to something wicked. “We’re finally talking like we did before you left, and you’re over there pouting?”

“Sansa, this is more than a political dispute. I promised I would protect you, yet here you are...in our home again.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “You can’t protect me, Jon. I think there’s only one person who could...” She clamped her lips shut. Eyes widening, Lady Stark swallowed, not daring to look at anyone else. Each of her muscles tensed, and she looked down at her feet and curled some of her sticky hair behind her ear. The cracks in the walls she’d built started to swell without her paying much attention. She couldn’t lose too much of her guard if she was going to figure out this mess. A rush of panic washed over her, causing her toes to curl in her boots.

“If father were here, I’m certain he’d do a much better job of it, Sansa, but I’m all you’ve got left.” 

He’d mistaken her sudden shyness for sadness, unable to see the proof of her blush from under all the red blurring her pale skin. “Father...of course…” It felt odd to lie when she just spent so much time building a case for the truth, but if one less person suspected her feelings for Tyrion, then it was worth it. A pit in her stomach gripped almost painfully. Even after all these years, the very core of her remained a demure, naive girl. Sansa wanted to hide under a thousand pelts for at least a year.

“You can’t ask me to go with her after all this.”

“Jon, I’ll have everything I need here at Winterfell.”

“Everyone loyal to you or someone close to you is injured. Ser Brienne can barely stand without help, Theon just woke up, and Jaime...if you can really even count him...lost an eye. Arya is gone now. It’s only you and Bran left.”

“Yes, well, if anything goes wrong in the south, I’ll have Lord Tyrion to hold captive until she flies up here and burns everything to the ground.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I never did quite master having an...enigmatic wit.”

They shared a mutual, small smirk, each reminded of a less complicated time back at Castle Black. Her older brother swallowed, shaking his head as his smile died. “Sansa, I won’t go.”

“Consider it a special request from the Wardeness of the North…”

“...Sansa,” Jon eventually groaned.

The lady smiled. It was nice to, for even a moment, return to a time when they could be comfortable around each other and joke. Reaching to cup his shoulder with her shaking hand, she nodded. “When you get to King’s Landing, try not to trust anyone. They’re all liars, and every one of them are better than you.” Sighing again, the lady added, “We’ll share a meal tonight in my room. I don’t expect to see you again for quite some time, brother. Check in with me after I wash, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“My lady,” Brienne said when Sansa headed for the door. “Let me escort you back to your room.”

Stopping beside Bran, the lady cast a quick glance over her shoulder. “Rest a bit longer, Ser Brienne. You’ve done well, but now that Jon’s leaving, likely by tomorrow at the sun’s peak, I’ll need you in the best condition possible after he’s gone.”

“Of course, Lady Stark.”

Turning, the lady spared the Spider one last glance before she moved for the door. Footsteps haunted her shadow, so she stopped, checking to see who followed. Of course, it was Jon. Quirking her brow, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “What are you doing?”

“Seeing you to your room.” He answered as if it should be obvious.

Lowering her chin down, Sansa smirked. “Podrick’s just outside the door, Jon,” she retorted, slipping her gaze over to Theon. “Are you able to walk?”

The Ironborn straightened, grabbing his sword and slowly weaving his way between the others in the room. “I am, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa regarded her older brother again, quickly saying, “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll fetch your handmaiden,” Jon replied. Did he simply want to feel useful?

“Both of my handmaidens died in the crypts. I’ll have Lord Royce find someone to draw up the bath.”

“Keep my cloak on you, then. I’ll come back for it later.”

Sansa wanted to say the words under her tongue, but she held them back. Nodding once, she gripped the cloak tighter and turned for the door. Lowering her gaze to Bran, a spark of anger zapped her wayward thoughts to the forefront of her mind. He’d known this would happen. Likely since at least yesterday. Looking to the wall, Sansa bent down, never once closing her eyes as she pressed a kiss in his thick, dark hair. Pulling away, he regarded her more tenderly than he often expressed. 

“I’m sorry, Sansa.”

“I’ll see you later, brother.” Reminding him that they were kin seemed important against the futile truth. Bran was gone forever, replaced by a stranger inhabiting his body. A part of her would never give up on him, though.

When she got to the threshold, Bran said, “They’ll call you the Red Wolf.”

“I can’t imagine why…” she retorted, finally moving out of the room...but not before Tyrion said her name. Sansa did not turn back.

* * *

**Chapter 8 should be up by this coming Friday! Please leave a comment!**


	8. But For Now We Stay So Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter means so much to me; I hope you enjoy this extra long (almost 10k!) installment of this story! I'm trying to keep us all on our toes a little, so expect a few surprises here or there. But for now, enjoy this break from all the angst, pain, and drama! I wrote most of this chapter to the song You & I by PVRIS in case you want to listen along!

* * *

**Chapter 8**

_Winterfell_

Tyrion

* * *

The ache kinked in his lower back blackened Tyrion’s mood. Three or four days in life after the end of the world—he’d lost count by now with all the essence of nightshade since Sansa’s attack—and he’d still not had the opportunity to speak with her privately. Hell, he’d seen her less than he had when they first arrived. He’d triggered the wounds on his chest open when he’d done all his awkward wiggling, because any movement beyond that was almost impossible, when he’d thought Sansa had been stolen from him.

In the days since the hours of celebration directly after the battle, Tyrion hadn’t been allowed to drink. So not only was he sour about Sansa’s private game of pretending she wasn’t avoiding him, he couldn’t take some of the madness swirling in his mind away through wine.

Later today, Jaime and Brienne would move back into her private room. With Daenerys’ people and forces marching south as of one and a half days ago, the other rooms of the castle were back to being unoccupied by other injured bodies. Despite their distance, Sansa had come into their room each night to read aloud. No one stopped her, not that anyone seemed to want to.

His brother and Theon were the two most mobile patients left behind all the tumultuous tension. When his own injuries healed up a bit, Varys had said he’d have his own private room near his brother. Sansa was passing messages rather than simply delivering the news herself. Gripping the sheets, Tyrion swallowed the bitterness back down to better warm his cold heart. It was hard not to be bitter when all one did all day long was sleep and stare up at the ceiling.

“Brother, didn’t the maester tell you to relax?” Jaime muttered, falling down onto his brother’s cot. 

Opposing them near Brienne’s cot sat the elusive Lord Royce. Though Tyrion didn’t know much about the large man, that he’d contributed to keeping Sansa as safe as possible over the years had settled some of his agitation and restlessness. He wasn’t a Northern lord nor was he from a Northern House. Across the room, the pale-haired knight and Yohn spoke of mundane things unworthy of dedicating too much of his attention. 

Why bother when Tyrion could privately sulk?

Sighing, the Halfman stared up at his brother. “Anyone who dares tell me what to do with the miserable amount of time I have on my hands can kindly shove it up their ass.” Lord Royce checked over his shoulder upon hearing Tyrion curse. Gritting his teeth, he growled, choosing to ignore the lord. “I can’t even sit up or wipe my own ass on my own! Podrick’s been spoon feeding me. If I could at least read without someone helping me to sit up, I could pretend to busy my mind with something.”

“The side effects of playing hero, Tyrion…”

The dwarf tensed, his mind gravitating back to Sansa. His heart sped up when the image of his family name on her skin flashed in his thoughts. Swallowing, he flicked his gaze back to the ceiling, not wanting to offer anyone the chance to witness any emotion in his gaze that might appear. 

What had Bolton done with her? Tyrion’s experience tangled with his wild imagination for a split second, and he visibly cringed when it went straight to some of the more experimental and dangerous things he’d once been willing to try. The last of his teens and part of his early twenties had been spent searching for ways to drown out the pain and noise of his broken heart as much as possible. Replacing the emotional scars with physical ones had seemed like an ingenious idea at the time. 

Before he could stop it, he thought of Tysha and everything that he’d let happen to her. No one in the world was less deserving of Sansa’s kindness and affection than Tyrion. If healing in solace did anything, it had certainly sparked up a new list for him: a list of all the reasons why he was wrong for the lady besides the obvious. Now, he dueled between the need to see her again, even for a moment, and the guilt stretching his soul too thin.

Slamming his eyes closed, Tyrion shook his head until he forced himself to look at Jaime, who’d waited for his younger brother’s inner turmoil to subside. He’d already said something that Tyrion hand missed. “What?”

Jaime sighed, shaking his head as he scratched the back of his head. “I said I’d come check in on you when I can.”

“Oh, I forgot for a moment that you’re leaving me stuck here alone, too.”

“You’re not alone, brother.”

“Podrick doesn’t count when he refuses to sneak me even a taste of wine…”

Jaime checked around the room. Royce and Brienne seemed to be in an in-depth, familiar conversation about something honorable...or just, probably. Leaning in closer to Tyrion, he narrowed his eye. “None of us are the one you  _ actually _ want to see…”

“Don’t bring her into this…” It was a warning.

Lowering his voice, Jaime watched his injured brother. “Lady Sansa is a curious girl, Tyrion.”

The dwarf’s chin trembled as anger crashed over him like a thrashing wave upon a cliff. Reaching up to grab Jaime’s collar, Tyrion almost snarled. “Shut up, brother.”

Jaime grinned, eyes sinking to Tyrion fisting the cloth of his thin cloak. “You know, you’re not really hiding your feelings for the soon-to-be queen in the North very well.”

Tyrion narrowed his eyes, loosening his grip on his brother. “Neither are you about Ser Brienne…”

The answer lingered in Jaime’s worried eye. His brother still hadn’t told him what had happened on the battlefield just days ago, but something had changed in him and between the two knights since he’d arrived at Winterfell. A rather quiet dose of fear scorned his older brother, dangerous, dark, and familiar thoughts crossed with Jaime’s newly found conviction. He thought of their sister. There had always been a trace of shame in his brother’s gaze on the few times they skirted too close to the truth of his relationship with their bitter, lost sister. Only this time, the hint of thoughts seemed to quell underneath a forgiving peace when Brienne chuckled a bit loudly behind them. A funny thought placated Tyrion’s mind, and a small smirk popped the corner of the dwarf’s thin mouth up slightly.

Swallowing, Jaime shook his head. “Say something snide…”

Tyrion parted his lips, looking like he’d been caught in the act of something that was supposed to be a secret. “I’m happy…” he assured. When Jaime’s eye narrowed again, Tyrion sighed. “I’m happy that you're happy…” Their mutual stare held them there until it was Tyrion who relented with a wider, mischievous grin. “I’m happy that you’ll  _ finally _ have to climb for it…” he muttered, so Brienne would not hear. Jaime’s breathless chuckles eased some of Tyrion’s impatience, settling him some. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to tell tall person jokes?”

“You’d better get used to them, brother. From where I’ve lain for the last several days, I know Lady Stark cares for you, too.”

A thick, tight ball wound in Tyrion’s throat, making it hard to say anything for a few seconds. Releasing his brother’s cloak, he couldn’t stop the grin from popping up the corners of his mouth. “I’d typically have wine when I toast,” he said, reaching his hand out to his brother with a sigh. “But we’ll just have to make due. To climbing mountains...”

Jaime caught Tyrion’s open palm, and they shared a brief stare. “To climbing mountains,” he repeated, eventually sitting back.

Footsteps from out in the hall broke their tense stare. When Sansa walked through the threshold, Tyrion gritted his teeth as his body trembled unconsciously. A dull ache pinched his spine. He must have groaned aloud, because the lady glanced over to him, a hint of worry upsetting the perfect poise and composure on her features. When their eyes locked, it was as if the world went as quiet as the castle had been in the moments leading up to the Long Night. 

Only this silence somehow drowned out all the pain and guilt; instead, Tyrion felt invincible. Parting his lips, he wished he could be coherent enough to force her into any conversation. If it was simply about the weather or her day, he didn’t care how mundane the exchange would be. So much lingered between them. He wanted to reach out and pluck every word brewing between them. More than mobility and wine, he wanted so much to feel her touch, which silenced most of the screams, misery, and loneliness still lingering in his memory. But even if he were capable of speech right now, Tyrion knew of why so much distance was required between them even if he didn’t fully understand it all.

Today, Sansa wore a thick black gown, the shiny dragon-scale texture glimmering from the fire’s light. A thin black leather bodice cinched the heavy fabric at her light, narrow waist. It was an ensemble she’d not yet worn. The steel ring with the silver chain looped through between her collarbones wrapped around the high collar of the dress. A thin braid curved across the top of her head, keeping her hair from falling in her face. The simple style made his breath quietly catch.

When she looked away, Tyrion noticed Sansa held onto a message scroll. He narrowed his eyes, noticing the way she lifted her chin as Lord Royce stood to his feet, bowing with a familiar greeting. The further she walked into the room, Tyrion saw Theon and Varys follow in after her. Somehow, he, Jorah, and Jon had all convinced their queen to allow Varys to stay behind for two to three weeks whilst they gallivanted south to claim King’s Landing after Arya cut his sister’s throat to avoid any further bloodshed. Despite it being the most obvious solution to the queen currently occupying the iron throne, a small part of him wished he could have arranged a different arrangement for his sister. Though she hated him, Tyrion would always have a helpless love for his family. He knew that from the moment Jaime was escorted in by Daenerys’ guards. The lady he loved, the woman he currently watched, had saved one sibling and ordered the death of the other. 

Tyrion just assumed it was to help find out more about who exactly was behind Sansa’s attack. The arrangement had Jon’s fingerprints all over it; however, the exact details to the arrangement Tyrion didn’t know. 

“I’m not yet a queen, and already I’m receiving suitors, Lord Royce…” Sansa said, quirking her brow as she held the message up by her shoulder for added emphasis.

Tyrion tensed, feeling Jaime shift on his cot. Fuck, he’d all but forgotten about his brother. The bedridden man decided to ignore the one-handed knight for now. 

“Lady Sansa, I sent for Lord Arryn.”

“You invited him to my home without consulting me first.”

“My lady, he is without his father and mother. He is young and vulnerable. Especially given the recent circumstance and your attack, I thought it best to have him where I can protect him. Should anything happen in the south, I’m afraid he’s rather impressionable. Littlefinger doted on him, and he has not taken his death well. He’s suffered quite a lot over the years. You of all people would understand him in that regard.”

Sansa moved close to Yohn, looking down at the message and sighing. “Lady Sansa, I count the days when we are again reunited. Like a ghost, your otherworldly beauty haunts me like a long-distant melody I can’t remember. Years bridge the space of time from when we were last together. I was a boy, a child. I daresay I, too, hope to haunt you when you see me. I’ve grown up quite a lot under Lord Royce’s instruction. I—” she read, cringing upon whatever else was written. Sansa glared at Lord Royce briefly before clearing her throat and continuing. “I envision the feel of your  _ beveled breasts _ against my  _ broad, hard  _ chest. For years, all I’ve had of you is the memory of the slap that forever branded my soul. I should hope to arrive at Winterfell within a fortnight. I expect the real castle to reflect the snow castle I destroyed. I was an ass, and I pray you permit me the chance to show you the man I am today. Until we are together again, please keep this message a secret from Lord Royce as a token of my affection. It shall be the first of what I hope are many secrets we share from the world when I can finally call you mine.”

Jaime sighed. “The boy has no hope if that’s how he speaks with women…”

“Certainly not how someone talks to a lady,” Brienne added, sounding like she disproved of the boy already.

“This is ridiculous…” Sansa said, her voice raising an octave on the last word. 

Theon Greyjoy moved around Varys to inspect the letter for himself. The heat at Tyrion’s chest had little to do with the slashes there. Gripping the bed sheets, he grinded his teeth together when the Ironborn placed his arm across her back along her shoulders, hand planting on her upper arm opposite where he stood at her side. “The boy certainly sounds like he reads too much of your books…”

Lord Royce reached for the parchment and scanned it for himself. Growling, the old man huffed. “That boy never learns…”

Sansa scrunched her lovely features, her nose wrinkling and lips flattening. “My books? I haven’t actually read them since I was a child. I only read them now because Winterfell’s library isn’t exactly ripe with options outside of old histories. And besides, I vaguely remember you always acting funny and stalking that woman from the brothel like a mad lunatic...what was her name? Ros?” 

The mention of the whore’s name made Tyrion pause, staring up at the ceiling for a second until the Ironborn replied. He remembered exactly what he’d heard that happened to Ros.

“I didn’t stalk her…” Theon retorted, yanking his arm from her to gently nudge her elbow with his. They shared a pleasant smile, and Tyrion’s mouth went dry as he held onto the breath in his battered chest. “Besides, how on earth would you know about her?”

The lady sighed loudly, rolling her eyes as she said, “If you and Jon spent less time worrying about my virtue, or lack thereof, imagine what else the two of you could accomplish other than trying my patience with expert skill.”

“How did you know about that?”

Puffing her cheeks, Sansa shook her head. “You’re really not letting this go, are you?”

“It’s not in my nature to give up.” When Theon spoke those words, the tender expression relaxing her neutral features disarmed Tyrion. Never had Sansa Stark been more vulnerable to scrutiny than this moment. He saw the same look in Theon’s eyes. The words held significant meaning between them. The lady cleared her throat after a few seconds.

“While I read my books and learned the ins and outs of how to be a proper lady, Arya ran around like a rat spying in on everyone. She told me about you and your obsession with her when we were being tutored by Septa Mordane. She always did love shocking me as a girl. I don’t know why. Father always scolded her quite badly after our fights. If I remember correctly, my head felt a little funny. I believe I almost fainted from hearing about what she caught you doing alone…” Sansa said, staring at the wall above Tyrion’s bed. A delicate giggle slowly eased from her throat, the sound almost inaudible. “I think that was only a day or two before King Robert arrived at Winterfell with the Lannisters in tow.”

Something about the way Sansa and Theon looked at each other eased the tension in Tyrion’s muscles. Since arriving back at Winterfell, Tyrion hadn’t seen her so expressive. Those pale eyes mirrored the wider than usual smile stretching her lips. The intoxicating hymn of her soft laughter melting the envy within him. Sansa Stark was happy, and she was letting those in the room see it. Standing together, Theon and the lady looked more like brother and sister, even more so than she did with Jon. No one had ever made her look more comfortable in the last few days of being here again. 

Whatever they’d been through, it was obviously stronger than the Ironborn’s allegiance with Daenerys. Theon eventually shook his head, opting to move to the round table and claim a chair for himself. When he did so, the bright, ethereal life in her eyes extinguished. Tyrion witnessed as she slipped back behind her infuriating walls that kept them apart.

Tyrion scrunched his features as he leaned his head farther into the already flat pillow, grunting at the discomfort. “Now I can’t unsee him sucking his mother’s breast. I’ve gone years without remembering my time being held captive in the Eyrie. Another one to add to my list the more miserable affairs through which I’ve lived.”

The lady regarded him, her features neutralized of any telling emotion. Mouth parting, a hint of a smirk worked the corner of her small, maddening lips. “From what I’ve heard, it, too, had its moments, Lord Tyrion.”

Squinting at her suspiciously, Tyrion shook his head. “What have you heard about it?”

“Being the daughter of Catelyn Stark  _ and _ the wife of the Lannister she’d dragged to the Vale for sentencing offered me a unique opportunity to hear all about your many scandalous confessions from my cousin. Robin wasn’t able to recount them with much detail, sense, or clarity, but it wasn’t too hard to piece together the general idea of the possibilities…”

They anchored their undivided attention on each other, the others in the room disappearing. Any witty remarks lingering on the tip of his tongue, including all the scandalous ideas swirling in his mind, ceased when she bit the inside of her bottom lip. Brushing some of her copper hair behind the curve of her ear, Sansa swallowed, looking like she struggled to breathe. Like she’d broken a rule by speaking to him, saying things she ought not to. A light blush pinked her pale cheeks.

Tyrion knew the feeling. The skin at his shoulders down to his wrists tingled before it pinched into gooseflesh. In his life, he’d seen however many women he’d fucked. A certain level of acting was required in the whores he had bought. Tyrion had allowed himself to fall privy to the women’s alluring charm, preferring to accept an illusion that he believed would never be real for a dwarf like him outside of the brothels than to sober to the reality that there was no love for him in this world. For a brief time, he’d thought that perhaps Shae could have honestly loved him, but the memory of her in his father’s bed using the moniker she’d reserved for Tyrion in their time together had all but shattered any hope for that foolish notion. 

At more than forty years old, Tyrion had voyaged the world over in search of the one treasure he was sure he was too small to reach. And of all places it could possibly hide, it resonated back at him in Sansa’s icy gaze in Winterfell. If he spoke, she’d likely run far away from him again. The fear in her eyes was plain as day, but of what he could not distinguish no matter how long he explored those pale depths. He wanted to keep her with him forever, so Tyrion fixed his attention on the letter. After a while he heard the lady clear her throat.

“This letter is...Petyr killed aunt Lysa, Yohn. It was a murder I willingly helped cover up.”

“My lady, you were just a girl. You had just fled King’s Landing. Lysa had just tried to throw you from the moon door. You didn’t know who else to trust but Littlefinger.”

“Stop trying to justify my choices, Yohn. Because that’s what they were. Choices. Ones that I alone made. I’d been trapped in King’s Landing for so long...gone without having the luxury of making my own choices for so long. And one of the first ones I made was to help cover up her murder. She was my aunt, my family. She wasn’t kind to me, but that doesn’t wipe my hands clean of what happened.”

“Lady Sansa, I apologize for sending for Robin without first speaking with you, but given all that has happened, you’ve had other matters to see to.”

“You’ve been my strongest ally the last few years, so I have no reason to question honor however your reply. But why does he believe we’ll be together? How did that idea get into his head? I haven’t seen or spoken to him in years.”

“The last thing his mother ever did was betroth him to you, my lady, while Lord Tyrion’s trial still hung in the balance. Regardless of her mind, Lady Lysa was his mother. He misses her. He only wishes to honor the memory he has of her. With Petyr also gone, he’s somewhat attached to the idea of your marriage, especially now that he’s a bit older. He asks about you often, and, if given the chance, I believe you could show him a great deal about the world.”

“But given the contents of this message, he doesn’t seem to mind that I helped in the killing of his beloved mother.”

“We never told him the truth about his mother. His temperament is still too volatile to handle it. I’d hoped to tell him when he was a little older, but I fear that may not matter much. As far as he knows, her death was a suicide...”

“So he’s still a less cruel and sadistic version of Joffrey?” Sansa’s mouth dropped as she searched the man’s features. “We only just got rid of Daenerys. Now you want to bring in another nuisance? Lord Royce, this is my home. It’s supposed to be the one place I shouldn’t have to hide.”

Lord Royce closed the letter, sharing a look with the lady. “Lady Stark, you will always have my support should you need it; however, I officially serve the Lord of the Eyrie. I did not feel that taking what’s remaining of my troops back home was a wise decision given your tense relations with the dragon queen. Not when I could simply bring him here and fulfill both my duties at once.”

Sansa narrowed her lovely eyes, tears starting to coat them. Swallowing, the lady shook her head. “I never asked you to stay, Lord Royce. I have no expectations of those not born in the North. Loyalties are a problem when duties start colliding into them. You’ve always been free to leave if you’ve ever felt you had to after I had Littlefinger executed.”

“I stayed because I believed in you. I used to hunt with your father in his youth. What happened to him was an atrocity, my lady. There are those of us who remember him. Until there is peace, I will stand with you, Lady Stark.”

“You might die if you do.” Her serene voice sounded small, weak. Not at all like she had when speaking with Daenerys in this room just days ago. The confession came from nowhere. The more Sansa spoke, the more her walls went down. Was it that Daenerys was here no longer that she felt she could breathe easier? The lady wiped under her eyes before any tears could fall, and she held her hand against her stomach as she struggled to release her breath. Thinning her lips, Sansa looked down.

“My lady?”

“I’ve declared the North an independent kingdom, Yohn. It’s only a matter of time before Daenerys flies back up here to take it back. I’m doing the best I can to prevent that, but I’m only one woman. I thought having Bran help me would guide me to the answer, but he’s either not telling me or hasn’t found anything. I wasn’t raised on histories on military or strategy. All the knowledge I have is secondhand. Aside from the brief period Jon left Winterfell to me, I’ve never led anything.”

Tyrion broke his silence by clearing his throat. “You have people around to help you with all that.”

“It’s not enough,” she replied without looking at him. Her fists coiled tightly. “Daenerys rules with things like fear, blind devotion, and force. She’s a conqueror. I have to be better, but I have no idea where to even start looking for weaknesses to exploit should I have need to.” Cupping the sides of her face, the lady fell down onto Jaime’s cot and choked on a panicked breath. “Petyr would know where to look…”

Brienne sat up, slowly scooting to the edge of her cot so she could reach out to rest her hand on Sansa’s back. “Lady Sansa, if Littlefinger were alive, he would only continue scheming. Although I believe Daenerys is capable of being queen of the ashes, I think she has as much potential for being a good queen if we can find a way to make peace with her. As for Lord Baelish, we know he would have raised the world to the ground if it meant he could take that throne for himself. You told me he once told you what he wanted...”

Sansa held her breath for a moment before exhaling loudly. Regarding her faithful knight, the lady blinked a few times before swallowing. “A picture of himself on the iron throne...with me by his side.”

“Sansa, everything he did was to get himself closer to that goal, regardless of who got hurt or killed. He gave you to the Boltons, so he could sever their alliance with the Lannisters. I believe he had an idea of what Ramsay was like. He risked your safety, virtue, and life anyway. Loved you he may, but nothing he would do in this situation would be to anyone’s benefit save his own.”

Standing, the lady walked between the men to the fire, keeping her back turned to everyone as she stared into it. “Lord Varys, have you smoked out any of his remaining spies here?”

“None thus far…Many of them probably died in the Long Night. The rest are either gone or hidden in plain sight; however, I assure you I’m working on a few leads thay may turn over a stone within the next few days.”

Tyrion’s back pinched him, and he gritted his teeth, unable to see her that well. “Jaime, help me sit up,” he muttered. Reaching up to the thin pillow, the Halfman waved his hand in the direction of Theon’s cot, which had remained empty since Daenerys’ departure. “Bring me his pillow. If there’s anything I miss about King’s Landing, I’d certainly start with the comfort of plush pillows and better beds.”

Jaime hesitantly moved toward his younger brother, regarding him as if he were calibrating a plan on how to relocate a one-ton piece of glass. Dipping his brows, his eye narrowed and face cringed in pain when Tyrion growled upon helping to slowly ease up. It wasn’t the first time he’d done so. The healers had to change his bandages somehow. Closing his eyes, the dwarf fell back against Jaime’s firm hand on his back as his brother readjusted the two pillows to help him stay up more comfortably. 

“Theon, will you please find someone to fetch me some wine? I’d like to stay here to read a little in peace while Jaime and Brienne move to her chambers. When you’re done, please collect a detailed report about the castle repairs from Lord Manderly and our food supplies from Lord Cerwyn. I want to know how long we can stretch it if we continue to conservatively ration what’s left of our stores. Until we know this, no one eats more than they’re allotted, including what’s left of the Northern lords and us. Those who help rebuild or train to defend Winterfell will receive a bigger portion to accommodate the increase in expended energy. If you can, please also see if any news of Deepwood Motte has come in,” Sansa requested, joining her hands behind her back. Her gentle voice almost drowned in the sound of the fire snapping and cracking. “When you have finished, please find and help Bran, Maester Wolkan, and Sam. We should have as many eyes on it as possible.”

“Yes, my lady.” Without hesitation or question, Theon left the room.

Lord Royce moved to the lady, reaching over to her to give her the scroll. “I, too, will take my leave, my lady. There are matters I must tend to on your behalf. I expect we shall discuss this matter in more depth a bit later.”

Snapping her gaze from the fire, Sansa swallowed, nodding once as the older lord started for the door. When he got to the threshold, the lady inhaled sharply and looked over her shoulder, saying, “Podrick is just outside the door. I’ll send someone if I should need more guards, Yohn.”

“My lady, you will be queen in the North soon. A squire alone is not enough to protect the future of House Stark. I must once again insist you allow me to assign a few men in my ranks to watch over you.”

“And I must once again decline the offer. Podrick will soon be knighted, but a title doesn’t change someone’s talent or skill, my lord. For a time, it was just me, Ser Brienne, and him on the run to Castle Black. I trust him with my life. We need as many men on repairs or patrolling the castle. Cersei is still alive. As is Daenerys. I want to be prepared and ready for anything that may come.”

Lord Royce bowed quickly. “As you wish, my lady.”

“Lord Varys, please see to your duties elsewhere in the castle.”

It took a few seconds for him to respond, but the Spider simply nodded and bowed dramatically before he reached the door. Extending his hand, he waited for the lady to give him hers, which she eventually did. Her features were inscrutable. Varys covered her hand between both of his before he lifted her fingers to his lips. Lowering their joined grasp back to his waist, the curious man stared deeply into her eyes. 

“Lady Stark, I want you to know that I will work tirelessly to ensure you and Daenerys find peace. I’ve not made it a habit to devote my loyalties to one ruler but to the whole of the realm. Lord Tyrion may vouch for me if you wish to question my motives. But I must admit it is rather refreshing to see someone in the game who doesn’t hide behind jaded smiles and polite threats. You say exactly what you feel and think without compromising what you’ve learned from others over the years. I hope you can eventually consider me a friend when I leave for King’s Landing. Peace has never been more crucial in Westeros than it is right now.”

Sansa withdrew her hand, searching Varys for any signs of dishonesty. She looked at him like she was trying to read a language she did not know. Swallowing again, the lady replied, “That will be all, Lord Varys.”

Bowing again, the Spider smiled warmly, “My lady.” Rather slowly, he left the room, closing the open door on the four left within.

Sansa regarded the round table and sat in the chair Theon had pulled out earlier. Gracefully, she crossed her ankles and assumed the perfect posture of a lady while she waited for the wine. Glancing down at the book at the center of the table by the fire, Sansa plucked it from the table and flipped through the pages. All the while, Tyrion openly drank up the sight of her glowing in the fire’s warmth near the foot of his bed. Leaning his head over to the side, he cracked his sore neck and groaned.

“I do believe it’s our turn to pretend to be busy so these two can have a chat they think no one will know about,” Jaime said, standing from Tyrion’s cot and sauntering across the room to help Brienne gather her things.

“This isn’t the capital, Jaime,” Sansa said, eyes still buried in the romance novel about the knight who saves the princess in the end. “No one here is pretending to be or do anything.”

“No? Then I don’t think you’d mind me telling Brienne and Tyrion all about the conversation you and Arya had during the celebrations…”

The book slammed shut, the bassy noise of the thick pages echoing until the fire cracked. Depositing it back onto the table, Sansa’s eyes narrowed. A blush colored her cool, pale, complexion. “That was a private conversation.”

“Perhaps you should have had your  _ private _ conversation somewhere more private.”

Brienne caught Jaime’s elbow, but he kept his attention fixed on the lady. “Ser Jaime, what are you doing?”

“Making conversation,” he replied quickly. When she pulled on his shoulder, he winced and rolled his eye, glancing up at Brienne like he was innocent. “I’m being polite, woman. Isn’t that what you asked of me? To play nice with others?”

“If you wish to tease me, Jaime, you’ll have to step in line behind Arya. She has a knack of it that I doubt anyone could rival.”

“I’ll leave the teasing to Tyrion. He’s quite good at that, or so I hear.”

The lady choked on a breath, looking down at her feet as she sprang up to her feet. Sansa stared at the door. The dwarf’s heart hammered in his chest. For whatever reason, Sansa wanted to talk to him privately after days of avoiding him; yet, here his brother was trying to run her off?

“Jaime!” Tyrion and Ser Brienne growled and hissed at once. 

“I think it’s interesting that you can joke about illicit and scandalous things with Arya, tease Jon about how you don’t need him being so protective of your virtue, and imply about masterbation with Theon,” Jaime said, shaking his head as a cocky smirk patronized the lady. “Yet when it comes to Tyrion, you default back to the timid maiden you were back at the capital.”

“If I could get up, Jaime, I would fling you from the walls myself…” Tyrion snarled.

“I’d like to see you try that, brother…” His brother had the audacity to laugh.

Sansa glared at Jaime, slowly taking one step after the other toward him in favor of bolting out of the room. The chain around her neck that hung down her body until it swept up to loop through her thin leather bodice at her waist clinked against the individual scalelike decorative detail on her gown. With every step, her loose copper curls bounced with the impact of her boot against the ground in sync with her small breasts. A thick layer of tears sheathed her eyes as she looked up to him whilst swallowing. 

“Don’t pretend to know of things you do not understand.”

“I think I know enough of what’s going on, my lady. I have only the need to ascertain your intentions with my brother. You people are already taking my sister’s life. I won’t let anyone hurt him. He’s the last bit of family I have left…”

Lifting her chin and straightening her spine, Sansa parted her lips, eventually retorting, “Then I suggest you personally thank Arya when she gets back for killing the Night King when she did. Any second later, and Tyrion would be dead.”

The door opened, and a servant walked into the room, depositing the flagon of wine and a goblet onto the round table. Bowing to his lady before he took his leave, the young boy left the door open.

Ser Brienne touched Jaime’s shoulders. “Let’s take our leave, Jaime. Lady Sansa should be left in peace to read.” When he didn’t move, Brienne pulled on his shoulder until she groaned, which caught his full attention. “I’m alright, Ser Jaime. Help me gather our things, so we can leave them.” He followed her orders, and within another few minutes, they left Sansa alone with Tyrion.

Upon the door closing, thick tears dropped down her exquisite face. By the time they reached her chin, she closed her eyes and wiped them away before they could fall to the ground or on her gown. Sniffling, the lady swallowed, checking over to the table. Moving toward it, she grabbed the handle of the flagon and the base of the goblet in the other hand. “I forgot to ask for another cup, Lord Tyrion,” she muttered, her voice sounding scratchy and faraway. Handing him the goblet, she tugged the small bedside table from the wall and set it to where he could reach. Claiming the empty cup from his hand, Sansa poured wine into it, falling onto the edge of his cot far enough so he couldn’t reach her but still close enough to catch a scent of flowers on her. Depositing the flagon onto the side table, the lady took a generous swig of the drink, stretching her neck back to reveal her delicate throat to him. Eventually, she stopped, gracefully wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She passed off the goblet back to him.

“Sansa…”

“Please just drink with me.”

Tyrion narrowed his eyes, but graciously accepted her generous offer. “Any particular reason we’re enjoying this stale, tasteless substance you’re choosing to call wine?”

The lady accepted the cup from him, seeing it was empty. Pouring a little more into the goblet, Sansa swallowed, eventually muttering, “With everything happening lately, I realized I hadn’t properly thanked you for saving my life…”

“Sansa, I don’t need your thanks.” Tyrion only needed her, but for some reason she’d broken her rule of avoiding him on her own volition. While having her close made him feel about three feet taller, there were unspoken questions burning his eyes. Moisture gathered there, and she took notice. He watched her push her hair over her ear again. Nothing in this world was more endearing or alluring than the simple, delicate movement. 

“I actually, umm...wanted to see how you were doing. I heard from Maester Wolkan some of your wounds opened back up?”

“Daenerys and I had a rather intense chat before you came in…” 

“Oh,” she whispered, looking into the cup and shyly sipping.

The ends of her bright hair tickled Tyrion’s hand as she readjusted on his cot, her posture relaxing as she sipped on the wine. He instinctively took a lock of her soft hair between his thumb and fingers, memorizing the silky feel against his rough skin. The lady gaped at him twirling and teasing the strand. When she adjusted again, Sansa bent her leg and scooted a little closer toward him. Her thigh brushed his body from his hips to almost his feet, which restlessly jostled underneath the pelt. The thin, oversized undershirt swallowing his small body slid further over his shoulder when his cock twitched at the innocent contact. 

Gritting his teeth, Tyrion shivered as he inhaled, his hand shaking as he experimented a bit with her limits. The lady watched as he slid her hand onto her knee, stopping just above reaching the start of her thigh. Her sharp gasp nearly sent him into a frenzy. The pain at his chest quickly reminded him of the consequences of moving too much. Leaning his head back against the wall, he closed his eyes. Peeking through his thinned lids, he met her beguiling gaze. The black of her pupils expanded, invading the pale blue’s territory to show him the effect he was having on her whether she wanted it or not. Together, their chests began heaving. With each of her exhales, her nostrils flared the faster they came. 

He decided the gods could no longer have him. Tyrion Lannister would grow old with and love only Sansa Stark, if she would have him. If he was a lucky man, that would be at least another forty years with her. His age could get fucked. His expansive loneliness, endless heartbreak, and crude experience versus her fractured virtue and haunting trauma. Who didn’t deserve who. None of it. Fucking. Mattered. Nor did the ashes of their dead family members, sworn enemies who hated each other so much that Westeros had splintered into nearly a million pieces. Together, they’d found each other in the middle of and in spite of all the hate, schemes, and war their houses both waged. The life they’d lived and the mistakes and choices they’d both made before this moment didn’t stop him from challenging everything he thought was true about the world and recalibrating the pieces of his obliterated heart to fit her into its shape.

Sansa was his home.

Whether she noticed it or not, Sansa leaned into him by a fraction. Exactly what she was doing to him, he was doing to her. She wore desire like she was made to wear a crown. Once again, she readjusted on his cot, moving even closer to him. Tyrion risked losing the explosive moment by moving his hand a little further up to her mid-thigh. Sansa gasped, covering his shaky hand with hers, and he cursed himself, always a glutton for more than he should require. For a moment, he saw the unbridled fear in her eyes; but she didn’t move. He followed her lead, both frozen in this perfect moment of innocent exploration. 

Tyrion swallowed when she started to stroke his wrist with her thumb. Sansa was close enough to where he could take the chain dancing between them against her body into his grasp. The dwarf instinctively tried to lean into her, but a sharp bite at his chest kept him back. Growling, Tyrion sank his attention at his fist coiled around her chain. Dragging his gaze over her body along the path it fell, he studied the lithe curve of her breasts, small and perfect, until he settled on the silver ring below her throat. Hovering over the name her dead husband had branded into her. His family name. He hung his mouth open, and the words simply slipped on their own off his silver tongue.

“I strangled Shae with the gold necklace I gave her. I murdered her.” Tyrion’s voice was almost inaudible.

Sansa set the goblet onto the side table and cupped the side of his face covered in several layers of bandages. Tears sparkled in her eyes like the stars gleamed from the night sky. Their hands were still joined on her thigh. Eventually, she lifted his, so they could lace their fingers together. There wasn’t a trace of fear in her vulnerable features. Only her pouty mouth parted. “Why?”

Swallowing, Tyrion shook his head, giving the moisture gathered in his heavy stare the freedom to fall. “She testified against me for my father. I’d sent her away a bit before Joffrey’s wedding. I intended to honor my vows to you, partly because I wanted to be a good man, but mostly because my father’s approval had always been the only thing I’d ever wanted. I did it, too, because Cersei threatened to have her killed. And still she stood there, only a few feet away from where I was chained up, and told them everything we’d shared like I was the shit peasants in Flea Bottom throw onto the streets each morning. Like nothing had meant anything. Jaime broke me free from my cell, but I just had to find my father. Instead of finding my father in his bed, I found Shae. She reached for a nearby knife, and I panicked, caught between the need to die and the will to live on.”

Sansa had to know what had happened to him when she’d disappeared. He didn’t know why she needed to know, but he just knew she should hear it. Tyrion felt a pinch at the small of his back. He cringed, eyeing the wine just as Sansa whisked it from the table and eased it to his lips. They shared a look, heavy, vacant, and warm all at once, over the rim of the cup. When he was about to pull away, she was already lowering it back at her other side. Her grip on his hand tightened. 

“I’m glad you lived on, Tyrion.”

“I am, too, Sansa.” They were still too far apart for him to reach her, but all he wanted to do in this world was to remember the feel and texture of her lips against his. Tyrion loosened his grip on the chain, and he deflated against the pillows. Swallowing again, he cleared his throat. “Do you plan on naming Theon as your Hand?”

Sansa took a long sip of the wine, replacing the spot where his own had been seconds before. When the rest of the wine was gone, she shook her head and scrunched her nose, depositing the goblet back onto the small table beside her. “It does taste a bit stale now that I’ve had a few sips of it. I’m sorry, I thought this would make you feel better.”

Tyrion smiled as his features worked against all the emotion burrowing in his chest where the bulk of his pain was. Flattening his brows, he replied, “I do feel better, Sansa…” Using his rough thumbpad to rub delicate circles into her palm on their joined hand, he loved the way her breath caught. “Why are you avoiding my question?”

“Because you’re the Hand of the dragon queen. I don’t yet know if she’s my enemy. It’s not wise to speak about my plans with potential enemies.”

“Ah,” he muttered. Licking his lips, Tyrion sighed. “Sansa, I’m done with all that. And even if I weren’t, I will never be your enemy. I don’t know how I’ll survive  _ that _ conversation with Daenerys, but we’re going to find a way. Together. My place is wherever you are.”

A new breath choked the lady, and she ripped her hand from his, looking down at the floor. When he reached for her, she dragged herself all the way to the foot of his bed. “Tyrion, what are you saying?”

Tyrion shoved his hands in his wild hair, tangling his fingers in with the darker, curly mess. Gritting his teeth together until they both heard them grind, the dwarf regarded her like she purposefully withheld the antidote for a poison which he’d already swallowed. “I remember everything.”

Sansa tensed as she froze where she sat. Her eyes widened as if she’d expected him to say anything else. Perhaps Jaime’s plan all along had been to simply ensure neither of them could comfortably exit the secret they’d both done a shit job in hiding the last few days before he left. The lady sprang to her feet, like his cot had caught fire. A ferocious frenzy of fear and anguish washed over her features, making Tyrion’s heartache from the space she’d created between them. Holding a hand against her chest, she forgot about the tears falling down her face.

“No, you don’t,” she challenged.

“I do.”

“Your bandages look a bit pink. I’m going to fetch the maester for you.” The lady retreated all the way across the room until her hand rested on the door handle.

“Sansa, I don’t give a fuck about my bandages!” Tyrion shouted, the sound ripping through his vocal cords, which rattled wildly until he grimaced. All at once, his cracking heart and the injuries tangled, festering into a swarm of throbbing pain across his body. He gripped the bed sheets and whispered a curse. The second after, he felt her hands cup his face. When he looked at his bedside, she knelt beside him. Her expression broke through his anger, and together, they shared a quiet sob.

“Tyrion, you’re in pain…”

“Fuck the pain…” Tyrion would endure it if it meant she would face the inevitable truth shrouded by unforgiving secrets and forbidden loyalties. His whole body rattled against the bed, but all he looked at was her. “S-Sansa, why did you come here? Was it to torment me?”

“Tyrion, I don’t know what I’m doing! I don’t know if anyone can stand against Daenerys. We have nothing!” she whispered, gently brushing his hair back.

“She’s been gone not yet two days, Sansa!”

“It was only a matter of seconds that saved your life.”

Tyrion flattened his brows as he searched her stormy features, reaching for her hand. Only when she took his did his erratic breathing relax. “Sansa, I love—”

The sky and sea flipped, switching places as his body splintered and reassembled in the span of a second when Sansa shoved her lips against his. Groaning as she moaned, the dwarf reached behind her head, gripping her pooling hair in his fist that shielded the rest of the world from them, caging them in so no one else could get them. Years ago, he’d wondered what she tasted like. Tyrion had consumed the finest wine and most expensive whores. None of it compared to the sweet paradise he charted in this innocent kiss that toppled the laws of gravity. When she pulled away, she lingered close enough to smell the sweat that sheathed on his trembling body. Never in his life had he needed something more than he needed Sansa Stark, the future queen in the fucking North. He craned his neck up to sneak another taste of her, and he cringed. 

When she started sitting back, concern creasing her breathtaking features, Tyrion tightened his grip in her hair. “Fuck...the pain,” he growled, sucking in a deep breath through his nose as he took her bottom lip between his teeth, gently massaging the firm, thick flesh with his tongue. He let the tension between her and him slowly drag her lip from his teasing, tormenting grasp. When it slipped back into place, Sansa gripped her gown’s skirt, leveraging a bit of slack so as not to rip the expensive ensemble, and repositioned so that he didn’t have to strain his neck. Both of her knees were on his cot, but she didn’t straddle him, either by choice or by inexperience. Neither reason mattered much.

Sansa gasped when he pressed another chaste kiss onto her intoxicating lips, closing her eyes and only opening them once he pulled away. Tyrion brushed hair over her shoulder as they exchanged a longing stare as both struggled to catch their breath. 

“What’s the matter?”

She shook her head before answering, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks. “I know I want to kiss you, but I don’t know how to... _ passionately _ ...kiss men.” She sealed her mouth to his again, and he absently returned it as he shook against her, slowly moving his hand from her hair to her throat. No matter how she moved, she expertly avoided the slash across his face and wounds on his chest. He hated them for keeping them from loving each other in this moment.

“I don’t want you to know how to passionately kiss men. I want you to only know how to kiss me. Explore me at your own pace to discover what feels right and good for you. We’ll rewrite the rules, together, and share something all our own, Sansa.”

Trepidation flooded her eyes, and he felt her start to move back, so he took her jaw in both of his palms. Tangling their mouths together, Tyrion swept his tongue across the narrow expanse of her lips. The lady gasped, permitting him the space he needed to sneak his hot tongue inside of her mouth. She jerked against him, but she didn’t pull away. Her needy whimper set off the network of Wildfire buried in his body. He led her to open her mouth wider for him, and she followed wherever he took them. For now. 

Gently brushing under her tongue with his, Tyrion cupped her jaw and opened his mouth, so he could give her a chance to explore him as he’d promised. Cautiously, Sansa swallowed, pulling apart only far enough to search his gaze. A thousand questions bloomed in hers, but he nodded without saying anything. Her breathing quickened until she almost choked on the same urgency that rushed in his chest. Trembling, the lady dipped her forehead against his, her eyes dropping to his lips. The sharp edge of her angular nose brushed his, though she was careful not to apply too much pressure. Tyrion yearned to be stripped of the bandages and the thick layers between them. He wanted to love the parts she kept hidden away. Tyrion wanted to know all of her, no matter how painful it was. He knew a lot of scars, deformities, and insecurities. There was nothing about her that wasn’t perfect to him.

The tips of her jittery thumb traced the shape of his bottom lip, which hung as her nearness and tender touch intoxicated him more than wine ever had. Before he could stop himself, the dwarf angled his head so that he could tantalize her finger with his suggestive, yet tender bite. A familiar shade of red heated her face. With her index finger, Sansa stroked the hard line of his jaw, eventually pinching his chin to angle his head back to how she wanted him. Peppering quick pecks against his mouth, Tyrion growled at her innocent attention, his patience threatening to snap at any second if she planned on tormenting him any further.

Tyrion’s cock stood painfully erect. She moved her hand to the other side of him, accidentally brushing the sensitive tip underneath the pelt. The dwarf roared with need in perfect unison with Sansa’s breathless moan. He shook underneath her, desperately whispering her name over and over.

“I want to tell you everything, Tyrion, but I don’t know where to start.”

“Save me, Sansa.”

“How?”

“Say you’ll marry me,” he murmured, absently brushing her hair back as he drank in her vulnerable stare. “We can figure everything out together.”

“I don’t think I stopped being your wife, Tyrion…” Sansa whispered back, sealing her haunting words with a gentle kiss. “I only did what I thought I had to in order to survive. You stayed with me through it all, always in the back of my mind when things got too painful to keep me going for one more day.”

“Sansa, I love—”

“You mustn’t say it.” The words were harsher than he’d expected. 

“But it’s the truth…”

“The truth will get you  _ killed _ , Tyrion! If things don’t get better, Daenerys will burn the world to the ground.” 

The dwarf clung to her like she was the source of his life. “If we must cram the entirety of our life together into the expanse of a moment, then any risk the truth brings will always eclipse an actual lifetime without you.”

“I’ve already put you in too much danger after what happened in the crypt. It was foolish, and I wasn’t paying attention to who saw us. I can’t afford to be careless anymore...” The more he studied her, the clearer a bigger truth grew. Among the plethora of reasons and worries keeping them apart, Sansa wasn’t ready to hear those words.

“Sansa, I’ve spent my whole life being in danger from my own father, who always wanted me dead, and my sister, who blamed me for murdering our mother at birth, among other very unlikely odds stacked against me. Daenerys will have Jorah with her at the capital along with Jon. I don’t think either man will allow her to burn the world.”

“I’m beginning to think everyone is too optimistic about her,” Sansa confessed, tears stinging her wayward gaze. “However she was in Essos isn’t the same woman as she is in Westeros. I know I didn’t help the matter. I was too proud with her and jealous that you…”

Tyrion claimed her lips, stealing another kiss before she could speak further. Despite all their differences, he could tell they fit together perfectly. Like the gods had molded her specifically for him and he for her. It was a simple, chaste joining of their souls, which tethered together. If it weren’t for his injuries, he would bring her to rest her head on his chest. Having her this close allowed him to imagine the feel of her body heat against his.

“What do you need of me? Ask for anything, and it will be yours,” Tyrion whispered.

Gasping whilst a shiver shot through her shine, the lady pressed kisses into the uninjured side of his face until she reached his ear. “Tyrion, no other man makes me feel the way you do,” she breathlessly admitted, pressing in an unspoken promise on his exposed throat with a kiss. She followed the curve of his shoulder with her hot mouth, her touch apprehensive and unsure. The lady followed her invisible trail back to his mouth. 

“I can’t lose you, Tyrion, but love distracted my brother, and it seems to have had the same effect on Daenerys and Jon. You tried holding onto Shae in secret, but it all crashed around you. I’m not clever. I haven’t studied books for decades, nor am I a skilled warrior. I’ve survived by learning from others, Tyrion. I can’t be  _ with _ you while I fight for the North’s independence, but nothing changes what I said in the crypts. And nothing ever will. If you intend to stay here with me, it will be your choice, one that may get you killed. I...I want you to advise me. I’m not sure I could do this without you, honestly. Two days on my own, and I’m already allowing my fears to get the better of me...” Sansa said, disentangling from him to sit up back. However, she didn’t move away from him. The lady found his hand and folded her fingers over his between the spaces of his. “If the world were perfect, I’d rule the North with you at my side.”

“Then we shall endeavor to perfect the world, my lady.”

“Will Daenerys see Robin Arryn’s arrival as an act of war?”

Tyrion brought her hand closer to his chest. Without leaving her open stare, the dwarf fanned her hand until her delicate fingers spread flat. Planting a gentle kiss at the center of her palm, he teased her skin by brushing his mouth up until he reached her sleeve. He pulled it up slightly, revealing her thin wrist. Swallowing, Tyrion closed his eyes for as long as his lips pressed against her throbbing pulse. 

“It’s possible, Sansa. Thankfully, you have the advantage of being a woman. Most men do not yet see women as capable rulers. You’ll soon begin receiving an endless supply of marriage offers. This excuse alone may be enough to diffuse any rash course of action.”

“Tyrion, promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“If a hundred men ask for my hand, I want you to promise me that you’ll know I won’t accept them. I don’t know what will happen once Robin gets to the castle. He was cruel, spoiled, and only controllable by his mother, who I helped murder.”

Tyrion nodded, quietly adding, “If being near me is too much for you, just promise me you’ll come to me when you’re stuck on something at a minimum.”

“I will.”

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**I'm trying to write the next few chapters all at once, so don't be alarmed if I don't update until next week! I doubt the next few chapters will be as long as the last few have been.**


	9. Meet Me On The Battlefield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So...another long chapter! Yay for y'all! This chapter started out a mess, but I'm really happy with where it ended up. So many moving parts, but I'm so excited about the next few chapters!

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**Chapter 9**

_Winterfell_

Sansa

* * *

“If you kill the Northman over a whore, the Northern Lords may rally against you, my lady,” Lord Varys instructed, hands in the pockets low on his stomach as always. His disapproving stare worked a frown at Sansa’s mouth.

“As the Lady of Winterfell and future queen in the North, I won’t tolerate a man beating any woman bloody.” Sansa’s sharp retort came quickly as her features tensed and eyes snapped to Varys, who stood beside Tyrion’s rolling chair. A second later, the lady felt Theon’s reassuring hand grasp her arm just off her shoulder. The tight air suffocating her eased a little, and she swallowed in response.

“Forgive me, my lady. I understand and appreciate your history more than you probably could believe. I, too, know an unfortunate thing or two about torture and agony. But that does not supersede the reality of the situation. Who do you believe your Northern lords are likely to support? A distant relative of an old name or a common whore?”

“I don’t think the North can afford to hang onto the scruples of the world before the White Walkers. We’re essentially in the middle of a small council meeting, and yet I see no Northern lords among us. I see a foreign spymaster, a son and brother of my House’s greatest enemy, and an Ironborn prince,” Sansa answered, sliding her gaze from the Spider’s boots to his own unreadable expression. Lifting her brow, the lady joined her hands behind her, saying, “We must all learn to make do with what we have left.”

Tyrion sighed, adjusting in the chair before saying, “Lady Sansa, in my time in Meereen with Daenerys, I watched the aftermath of the conflict between the former slaves and masters. While she was too late in opening up the fighting pits, there was significant merit in honoring the tradition as a compromise between the old world and the new one she’d created.”

“Tradition died when the Northern Houses betrayed each other. Given all the wars from the time my father’s murder to present, Lord Cerwyn stands firm at his estimates of our remaining people...at most three hundred and fifty thousand scattered across the North. Almost a million lived here when my father went south,” Lady Stark retorted, brows flat and mouth thin. 

“All the more reason to preserve what we have left, Lady Stark,” Varys tragically muttered. “The longer you allow foreign spymasters and southern lords to linger in your close company, I’m afraid your position in the North and the power of your name will drown underneath the desperation of your worried and hungry people. Your brother, Robb—”

“My brother made many mistakes. Yes, I’ve said as much,” Sansa spat, her top lip curling as her expression tightened. Swallowing, she sighed. “I’m most interested in understanding the future, so I can solve the problems of the present.”

“Your brother, from what little I understand of his fascinating condition, seems to be able to watch the future rather well…” Varys replied, his eyes suggestive and posture relaxing.

Lady Stark straightened her spine, drawing her shoulder back as she lifted her chin and lowered her eyes back down onto the large map of Westeros, immediately anchoring on King’s Landing. The air around her compressed against her back and chest until breathing grew unbearable. Biting the inside of her cheek, Sansa gritted her teeth together as she suffocated on the truth she’d kept hidden away from everyone. Bran, of course, knew. At the thought of her brother, her whole body tensed. The crude chanting from the Dothraki who’d handled her body whispered in her mind. She ground her teeth together to stop the sob avalanching in her chest.

He’d been the source of her current inner turmoil and doubt. Both her brother and the Three-Eyed Raven, he no longer made her feel safe, especially since he’d confirmed he’d known about her attack for more than a day. Bran had done nothing to protect her. He’d apologized, citing the want to spare her life and to prevent another war from breaking out so soon after the fight for life had ended. Any trust between them was now fractured, questionably irreparable from her perspective. It seemed she, too, had a weakness in her heart that opened her up to unwanted confusion. Just like Littlefinger. Killing the man had restored a semblance of safety and control back within her grasp; however, the lady could no longer remember the honeyed taste of safety as of late.

The fear that her trauma would forever haunt her loomed over her shoulder. To make matters worse, Maester Wolkan’s supply of Essence of Nightshade grew dangerously low. Four nights ago, Lady Stark had made the inevitable decision to stop taking it every night—as she’d done since reclaiming Winterfell, so the brave, wounded Northmen could take it to help them sleep away their pain. The dark circles under her eyes had little to do with voluntary forgoing sleep in favor of plotting out a cohesive, comprehensive strategy.

The first night, she’d woken up the entire suite of chambers near her own. Large, unfamiliar hands held her down as Sansa, still lost in the abyss of memories tangled with exaggerated nightmares, thrashed against her bed. She’d heard shouting, distinctly Theon’s pleas. When she opened her eyes, a pale, haunting, and sadistic stare drowned her all over again. It had all happened so suddenly, but the scene was exactly as she’d remembered. Ramsay staring over her as he starved for torture. The sound of Theon’s pleas and sobs. It all came crashing down over her like a fury of fire and steel. Somehow, she’d wriggled an arm free, so she instinctively slashed out before her, striking her husband across his throat with her nails. She shouted something foul, an obscene recount of all the things she wished she could do to him if only given the chance. 

But an unfamiliar cry and hiss cut through the nightmare, and everything faded away until only Ser Brienne, Theon, and Jaime were left within her own chambers. Hyperventilating until her head went light, Sansa returned Brienne’s shocked expression. Thin lines of blood dripped down out of the superficial scratch marks she’d caused. Before the lady could even string together enough sense and words to apologize, her knight shook her head, backing away with encouraging apologies. Jaime and Brienne left her and Theon alone in her chambers, where she spent the rest of the night quietly sobbing in the Ironborn’s arms.

Four nights without Nightshade had all but resolved to her that she’d come to rely too much on the substance. It was like how Tyrion always drank his problems away. They were only running from their issues, though hers carried different conditions and nuances than his.

Swallowing, Sansa scratched the spot of flesh on her neck hidden by the high collar. Of course, she wore so many layers of clothing because of the weather conditions outside the comfort of the drafty castle walls; however, the lady liked that she could pretend the scars weren’t branded into her body. She wore tight, heavy ensembles like armor, mostly to shield her from the familiar fingerprints that burned her memory. The back of her head pinched, so she closed her eyes and rolled her head back. Doing so caused the chain wrapped around the delicate shape of her neck to clink and chatter until she reached for the silver loop. Sansa checked the large map splayed across the war table, absently busying a hand with the heavy circle nestled at the base of her throat between her collarbones.

Dreams had once been her way of coping with the tragic reality back in King’s Landing, often inventing stories of the ships leaving and arriving at the port. Pretending the world was better than it was had kept her alive long enough to want to keep going for one more day. Like Arya could cut other people’s faces to wear for killing, Sansa also collected faces, seemingly stored in a permanent vault within her subconscious she had no way of controlling or suppressing on her own. Because of Bran, Sansa had yet another face of horror that she took with her to sleep. 

Right now, control seemed like something she should hoard when she could. Her brother had tried to help her in the time that had passed, but the lady wasn’t interested in relying on fragile whispers of a future that may never be. Proof and facts were the two treasures she’d sought out in the last four nights, which she’d spent alone or with Theon holed up in her room with her nose shoved in two ancient tomes that almost matched the age of the Wall. The nightmares had made her face her dead husband again, but the old pages had given her the whisper of the lead she’d needed for weeks now.

“Sansa?” Tyrion muttered, yanking her from the dark thoughts cloaking the world from her mind. A gentle gasp tickled her throat as she tangled her gaze with his. 

Two full weeks had passed since she’d kissed Tyrion in his small cot, desperate to bury the words that had the power to break down her walls that almost spilled from the dwarf’s warm, silvered tongue. Right now, her walls both protected her from falling apart and threatened to guide her down a chaotic path of paranoia. Rolling her eyes, she shook her head and wiped under her eyes to stop the tears from falling.

“Bran hasn’t come out of his room in days. About a week ago, I asked him to keep an eye out on Daenerys. I want to know about anything of use that happens in the south, so we have as much time to prepare for what I’m certain can only be the end of Winterfell.”

“We won’t let it come to all that, Sansa,” Tyrion muttered from across the war table. He could tell her anything, and she would know it was a fact, that it was infallibly true. 

When the lady fixed her attention on him, she felt the building pressure in her chest ease with a slow exhale. Every fear and worry drifted away like the clouds gently swayed in the sky. The delicate shelter of his soft, yet warm features reached her until she felt the heat blanketing around her. The movement was so slight, but she caught his soft, encouraging nod, prying a small smile from her tight mouth. Each time he used her given name, something in her belly almost burned, a hollow and tense sensation teasing and coaxing an unexpected reaction from her. The low rumble of his deep voice echoed in the space between them until her toes curled in her boots. When her heart picked up, the room grew hotter underneath all the many layers of the black gown she wore. 

Theon’s elbow knocking against her own tore her from her reverie. They shared a quick look, one that made her narrow her eyes and puff her cheeks out as he shifted his attention between her and the man restricted to the rolling chair across the room. A grin highlighted the mischief in his eyes, and her breath caught as she shook her head with a signature eye roll. Biting her bottom lip, Sansa cleared her throat with another sigh soon following the disruption. Tucking the stray strand of copper hair bothering her jaw around the curve of her ear, the lady swallowed. “To be honest, the two of you are much more useful to me than my brother ever could be.”

Lord Varys’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. “And why is that?”

“You both have something I won’t have for decades: experience.”

Tyrion and Lord Varys exchanged a worried, grave look before the dwarf knit his brows together and sighed. “Are you calling me old? I’m not _that_ old,” he grumbled with a sour expression on his face, effectively erasing the pleasant one it replaced. 

The lady wanted to bring back his easy, infectious grin, anything to see him any morsel of happiness again to rip away the questions and anxiety nesting within his gaze. So, Lady Stark caught the echo of a whim dwelling in her mending heart, deciding instantly that she would break down a tiny part of her wall, so she could try something she’d once sworn off forever. Flirting...

“Lord Tyrion, you are likely the youngest man I know…” 

Sansa hadn’t a clue what the quick reply was supposed to mean, but Tyrion had little trouble deducing it for himself from across the room. Amusement took root in his expressive, wise gaze until it sprouted a wide grin at his mouth. All was well, until he softly chuckled. The deep sound resonated throughout the war room, tickling her belly so much she had to place her hand over it in a pointless attempt to quiet the ruckus.

Drawing her brows together, Lady Stark narrowed her eyes and shoved her lips to one side. “Are you laughing at me, my lord?”

“Not even I am that bold, Lady Stark.”

Their mutual smile quieted the room. Varys stopped shifting from one foot to the other, while Theon stopped tapping on the hilt of his sword. In the year or two she’d been home, Sansa wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to feeling so protected in something as simple as staring at Tyrion.

“Not that I would dare corrupt a perfectly happy moment, my lady and my lord, but perhaps we should discuss the matter of what to do about this precarious situation…” Lord Varys interrupted, clearing his throat. “Or shall we finally discuss why Jaime sits in a locked room under Ser Brienne’s constant watch?”

“Ah, yes, my brother...the idiot and prisoner of yet another Lady Stark,” Tyrion sighed, the warmth in his features disappearing as he sank into the rolling chair.

“Jaime is not my prisoner. Brienne stopped him from hurting the stableboy two nights ago, but he _was_ trying to leave...I don’t personally care to take the time to understand him with everything else going on; however, until we know Cersei’s dead, I think it’s best he remains under constant...supervision. At the very least until he’s had some time to think before he goes and gets himself or someone else killed…”

“We all knew of the possibility of this happening. Daenerys didn’t exactly protect the information when she spoke with Tyrion about it in a room filled with people,” the Spider added. Walking around the table until he stood by the lady, who straightened her posture. “I know of one more complication, my lady. My birds tell me that a certain squire apprehended one sellsword last night in the tavern. He started a rather bloody fight over a whore...if the rumors are to be trusted.”

“Bronn’s here at Winterfell? Why would he come here when he knew of the possibility of the Night King’s army?”

Varys glanced back across the table toward Tyrion. “Why indeed?” he replied, turning his attention back to Lady Sansa.

Glancing over to Theon, she waited for him to nod. Setting her pale gaze back to the man across the room, she bit her bottom lip, sighing when she knew she had no choice but to answer. “He came here on Cersei's orders—with Joffrey’s crossbow—to kill you and Jaime for betraying her and your family,” Sansa said as she rejoined her hands behind her. “Last night, he told Theon he’d intercepted Daenerys’ caravan from afar on his way here, only he did not find you with her. Bronn figured Jaime was already dead from the battle of the Long Night, but he came here with the hope he’d get to kill one of you for all the trouble you’ve caused him with your family’s...unmet debts.” Swallowing, Sansa looked at Theon again, asking, “What was it, exactly, he told you?”

“Fuck the fancy cunt of every last damned Lannister, my lady.”

Turning her attention back to Tyrion, she sighed, shaking her head as she rolled her eyes. “Yes, that was it.”

“What do you plan on doing with him?” Tyrion narrowed his eyes as he studied her. It was clear he cared about the sellsword. They’d spent enough time in close company while back in King’s Landing when every Lannister wanted the dwarf dead.

“Right now, I have enough to deal with. He’ll remain a prisoner here at Winterfell until I know you’re safe, my lord.”

“He’s a sellsword, Lady Stark. And he no longer needs money to kill me, it seems.”

A smirk curled the corner of the lady’s mouth. “He’s still a sellsword.”

Tyrion deflated in his chair, his features tired as he shook his head. “Sansa, in order to hire a sellsword, one requires a bit of gold...a resource I no longer have.”

“Perhaps…”

Tyrion’s mouth hung as he regarded her like she was a familiar word at the tip of his tongue he couldn’t totally remember. Those watchful eyes narrowed as his mouth slowly closed. Straightening his spine against the back of the mobile chair, the dwarf swallowed and shook his head, the movement so slow. “Sansa Stark...you’ve found something,” he muttered.

Biting her bottom lip, Sansa lifted a hand to her mouth, her fingers tracing the delicate curve there as she switched her gaze between Tyrion and Lord Varys. Clicking the heel of her boot against the stone floor, the lady swallowed, fixing her focus back to the man she loved. Fidgeting shoulders and breaking her perfect posture, Lady Stark sighed. “Tyrion, do you trust Lord Varys?” she asked.

It had taken two full weeks to finally find a promising thread of hope. If Varys planned on betraying the confidence Tyrion had in him, it would topple down the remaining castles in the North until the stones joined the others amongst ash and snow. Risks were part of playing the game, but she would sooner die than see the destruction of her home at the expense of being foolish. While Tyrion had proven uncharacteristically inconsistent with his council to Daenerys, Lady Sansa’s soul told her she could trust him, almost unconditionally. 

It terrified her to her core to need and rely upon someone as ardently as she did with Tyrion. It had all happened so suddenly. For years, Tyrion Lannister had succumbed to the idea that Daenerys was the one he’d loved. Yet it had only taken a couple of days for Sansa to completely rearrange his world to fit her into his heart. The longer she allowed her thoughts to linger on the man, Sansa timidly warmed to the idea that she’d likely loved him for years. Somewhere deep within her fractured heart, he’d burrowed, ensuring he was never too far away from her during all of the agony she’d endured. There was so much she still did not know about him. He’d been married once before her. But the frightening truth was that, together, they shared an impossible connection. In this world, there were two people that perfectly captured what Winterfell made her feel. Dangerous, yet comfortable and familiar. Only one of them provided her heart with the promise of the safety for which it desperately starved. 

Tyrion’s brows twitched until they knit together as his features worked through a thousand different expressions. She waited for his answer, carefully studying the reply crafting in his calculated stare. Parting his lips, he waited for only a second longer before replying, “Sansa, I’m only alive because of him.”

“And I am only alive because of you…”

“Varys has always been loyal to the realm, my lady…”

“A realm the North is no longer a part of,” the lady retorted. Narrowing her eyes, Lady Stark tried to understand why the answer was as difficult for him to formulate as it seemed to be.

“More than that, he’s among only a few people that I consider my friend.”

Sansa shook her head. “Do you trust him?” the lady challenged. Fear boiled in his frenzied eyes, but she didn’t understand why. Up to this point, Tyrion had only encouraged Lady Stark to work with the Spider.

“I do,” Tyrion weakly murmured, fingers gripping the chair. Dropping his gaze to distract himself with the war table, the lady watched him choke on a suffocating breath. The man swallowed, eyes darting in every direction. He leaned on his elbow, a shaking hand covering his mouth.

Breathless, Sansa rounded the large table until she gracefully knelt by his chair, her hands busying with the ends of his curly hair as she cupped his scarred features impregnated with disarming fear. A soft, peaceful smile melted her cold expression as she brushed his unruly hair back, exposing the fresh but healing scar mangling his face. Swallowing, she leaned into him, so she could place a chaste kiss on his cheek. When he tensed at her attention, the dwarf started to pull away from her, aware of Varys and Theon’s watch. The lady stilled him as she pressed her soft mouth against his chapped lips. When she felt his mouth starting to part, Sansa pulled back slightly, choosing to remain beside him and leaning her forehead against his.

“Relax, Tyrion. Theon is among the few I trust in this world. I’m sure you’ve spoken to Lord Varys about us to some degree. Why do you doubt him?”

Shaking his head, Tyrion reached for her face, cupping her pale cheek fitting perfectly into the warm curve of his palm. Using his thumb to tease her lower lip a little, his eyes flickered between her mouth and bright stare. Swallowing nervously, Tyrion leaned into her, the movement dangerously slow and methodical. Placing a gentle peck at the tip of her nose, he continued to explore her smooth skin with his rough lips, placing soft kisses against her forehead, temple, cheekbone, and jaw. Each kiss lingered a bit longer than the last, and Sansa felt her stomach flip over a thousand times. She bit her lip, unused to the unfamiliar wanting stirring low in her belly. In the hopes of distracting herself, she exhaled, wincing at the stuttering breath caught in her tight throat. When he claimed her lips in his, the lady’s eyes drooped closed as her brows lifted at the unexpected tenderness. He worked a quiet moan from her, pulling away when he started to deepen the kiss.

When she opened her eyes after he broke them apart, Sansa noticed he trembled as his chest heaved one breath out as he shivered the next in. The lady took advantage that the bandages that once obscured his ugly scar from her were gone, opting to press a lazy kiss over it high on the bridge of his nose. An almost inaudible giggle bounced in her chest, tickling her as it fluttered up into her throat.

“I don’t doubt him, Sansa.”

Placing both sides of his sharp jaw between her palms, Sansa smiled, shaking her head as she moved her thumbs against the spiky stubble along his throat and face. “Don’t doubt yourself. I don’t.”

“Every woman I’ve ever cared for I’ve either killed or helped kill to some degree...or they’ve _almost_ died because of my mistakes.”

“Tyrion, you saved King’s Landing. Don’t you remember the Battle of the Blackwater?” 

When he stared at her, his eyes narrowed slightly as his brows furrowed and mouth parted. Tyrion slammed his eyes closed, shaking his head so much that Sansa had to lower her hands from him. Before she went too far away from him, he caught her thin wrists, stopping her from putting any more distance between them. “That’s not what the history books will say. No one will remember me no matter what I do. Fuck, when we first arrived, you told me you once thought me to be the cleverest man alive.”

“That was in the context of you believing that Cersei would ever bring her army North to fight beside the girl she believes conspired to kill her most beloved son, the brother she’s despised your whole life and man who killed your father, and the foreign queen who means to usurp her.” Biting her lip again, she lowered her mouth down to the top of his hand, closing her eyes as she reveled in the feel of having him next to her. “I was too distracted by my own plights then, but I’ve heard the truth from Bran. In the time between having Littlefinger executed and you arriving here, I asked Bran about you. He told me lots of things about what you did in Essos and what you’ve done for Westeros. You’re brilliant and have a mind for seeing things others can’t. You’re a fool, though, if you don’t believe that.”

“What if I’m nothing compared to what everyone says about my mind?”

“Tyrion, look at me,” Sansa whispered, waiting until he was ready to meet her understanding gaze. When he did, the lady kissed him again, their tender contact brief but magnetic. As she pulled away, she took a stray lock of the long curls framing his face between her fingers, absently fidgeting and playing with it until she saw the paralyzing doubt leave his expression. “I spent a lot of time with Littlefinger. I know a thing or two about men with clever minds. Maybe they luck out and never make many mistakes. Maybe their risks pay off in their favor. But that means that most of them never gain the opportunity to actually learn.”

“There is such a thing as making too many mistakes, Sansa. I can’t even think about what could happen if I make even one with you.”

“You’re extraordinary because you’re so breakable, Tyrion. You spend so much time telling others what you think they feel about you that you’ve started to believe that you’re nothing more than the Imp with the luxury of a powerful name. And it’s simply untrue,” Sansa said, shaking her head as she pressed her forehead against his. “It’s not true…”

When he opened his mouth for a quick rebuttal, she sealed the truth with another kiss. He eventually settled down as he prodded her lips with his hot tongue, leading her down an uncharted path of veiled, constrained passion from her innocent kiss. There was so much he held back from her. A part of Sansa already stood at the precipice, ready at the edge waiting for him to jump off with her. They stared at each other as he pushed her into an unknown world of which he was the king. Tyrion slipped his tongue inside her mouth, but it wasn’t like before, like he was so lost in their passion. The look in his eyes was subdued, questioning...like he didn’t know what to do next. While they both knew their affection could go no further—Lord Varys and Theon _were_ still in the room with them, something about the broken hopelessness quietly prowling in his vulnerable stare broke her heart.

Sansa’s eyes welled, heavy and hot tears readying their fall. This man was somewhere around forty years old, and all he’d known in his life had been loneliness, abandonment. How many times had his own family arranged for his murder? The girl of her past had been too preoccupied to notice it back when she’d taken his traitorous family name. Unlike before, when they were alone in his room a fortnight ago, Lady Stark didn’t pull away from him when his wealth of experience overwhelmed her. Not when he showed her a side of himself she’d never bothered to see as clearly as she did now. 

It was like an ancient language only they remembered took root deep within their souls, binding them together with a simple stare. Whether they both could translate what any of it meant was irrelevant. Regardless if it was some mystical or romantic gift from the gods all her favorite childhood books mentioned or simply instincts, this connection bloomed between them, unbothered by the harsh conditions of the Northern winter, her faraway trauma, and his lifetime of loneliness. She didn’t know exactly when she’d had the time to fall in love with Tyrion Lannister, only that she had and so vibrantly did.

_If we must cram the entirety of our life together into the expanse of a moment, then any risk the truth brings will always eclipse an actual lifetime without you._

If things were different, perhaps they could do that. But she wasn’t like the worldly women who threw themselves in and out of passion with expert ease that he was used to. She wasn’t someone who made vows only to break them, nor was she going to let her family slip through her grasp. Not when she’d grabbed onto the small pieces that were left of it. However, Tyrion Lannister was part of that family now. 

And Sansa Stark’s duty was to her family. All of it.

No longer was she alone. Together, they would fight their way out of it all. The longer she tasted him, the more flashes of the life they’d share popped in her mind. He would give her the life she’d never imagined. After they figured out how to save Westeros. The inevitability of it all, the hints of laughter and bursts of extraordinary love and life, vibrated around in her thoughts until they almost overwrote every painful memory. This was likely the last time she’d kiss him for a while. Especially now since Yara Greyjoy headed to Winterfell on top of her cousin, so drunk on the possibility of honoring his mother’s final wishes before she ripped herself away from this world. 

If only he knew the truth...

Experimenting with her tongue, she let him guide her to where he wanted her. Tyrion prodded and rolled their tongues until she gained a rudimentary grasp of what exactly he wanted from her. He grabbed the back of her head, gripping the loose lower layer of her copper hair that wasn’t wrapped tightly into plaits in the shape of a small but ornate flower. Opening his mouth wider, he waited for her to catch up to him, giving the lady time to explore what felt awkward and what felt right to her. Where he conjured the patience to do so, she couldn’t exactly know. Not when she felt things she, very recently, imagined she would never experience. 

Her body acted on its own accord. Toes straining in their curled shape in her boots, gentle shivers dancing at her spine, and belly heavy with the same heat that pooled between her thighs. The lady almost stopped caring about the other two men in the room, wild sparks of desire nipping and pinching each inch of her body in a perfect melody both tender and furious. Tyrion unlocked an entirely new world pulsing with vibrant life and rich color. Sansa’s body tingled until she felt weightless, so she reached up between them and gently pressed her fingertips against his chin, her touch ghostlike but enough to anchor her back down.

Tyrion pulled away only far enough to break their fractured, passionate moment. Swallowing, he let one of her wrists go and cupped her jaw with his palm. “I can’t lose you, Sansa,” he whispered only loud enough to where she could hear it. He knew this was more a temporary goodbye.

“You won’t…” 

“My lord...my lady?” the Spider quietly muttered, careful not to disrupt their moment too quickly. Neither of them broke their longing stare to look at Lord Varys, who took his time in continuing, “I’ve been a servant of the realm for decades; however, I want you both to know that I plan to do whatever I must to prevent anything from happening to either of you. I wasn’t able to help Ned Stark, but I believe I _can_ help both of you. I know now that peace begins with the two of you…” 

Tyrion and Sansa severed their attention on each other to look at him, though they still held each other’s hand. The dwarf cleared his throat, eventually replying, “And how have you come to this conclusion?”

“Because she is the Red Wolf, Tyrion. If a wolf can love a lion in the same family who slaughtered her pack, then perhaps there is still much hope for Westeros.”

Tyrion kissed the backs of Sansa’s fingertips, returning his undivided attention to the breathless lady. “I’ve never known you to be a romantic, Varys…”

“Also because Lady Stark didn’t raise the call to her bannerman or country against Daenerys even when the possibility that she arranged for her vile attack exists, which shows restraint and unimaginable strength. Nor has she whispered a song against our Dragon Queen’s life, which shows uncommon wisdom. Lady Sansa knows that the North and south cannot exist without the other, yet she’s openly called for the North’s independence. She’s complicated things, but without all of Littlefinger’s signature chaos. She values your opinion and guidance, my lord. When we sailed across the Narrow Sea, I honestly didn’t know how far you’d make it. Especially all that happened...I, of course, hoped. Your talents and gifts, when untampered with, are exceedingly special and rare; however, you allowed your insecurities to dull your ability to remain creative, ruthless, yet compassionate when playing the game. It’s not too late to correct your mistakes...with the right ruler.”

“I did what I thought was right with Daenerys…”

Lord Varys joined his hands in front of him with a grave sigh. “My friend, you distracted yourself from coping with what happened with your father and Shae. Daenerys Targaryen is everything a man needs to fall into the illusion of love. She has dragons, great beauty, a good name and story, a powerful cause…” he said, switching his attention to Sansa, who rose to her feet and raised her chin. “Daenerys is exactly what Westeros needs...a legacy that inspires love in the hearts of those who support her and fear over those who do not. I always thought you would help her shape the world, but your plots single-handedly destroyed most of the power, alliances, and advantages with which she came to Westeros.”

“Varys…” Tyrion started, his voice almost a growl.

“I am not quite finished, my lord,” the Spider interrupted rather harshly. Setting his full attention on Tyrion again, he cleared his throat. “I’ve spent a great deal of time watching you over the years, my friend. And I can say with absolute and unquestioning conviction that I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you’ve looked at Lady Stark since our arrival at Winterfell. While I must admit I did not study her as I may have ought to back at the capital, I’ve seen the way she looks at you when she thinks no one is watching her. Right now, she stands with us as a lady, not a queen. She’s made no arrangements for her ascension, either. She knows patience the way I once told you about. Something you’ve forgotten, my lord. She values the truth...Neither of you alone are enough to save the North or Westeros, but, together, I’m seeing the truth unfold before my eyes.”

Sansa already had an idea of what he inferred, but she still asked, “And what truth is that?”

“Something that even I never expected...I won’t pretend to be what I am not. I’ll leave the romance and splendor to my friend, here. I’ve seen firsthand what passion does to the realm. I don’t think there has been a union in power that has not failed the realm in some way. But what the two of you alone lack, the other has for the most part. You complement each other, my lady,” Lord Varys mused, staring at Lady Stark. Moving toward her, he reached for her hand, grasping it between his. Sansa swallowed, unaccustomed to allowing strange men to touch her, but she didn’t shirk him off. “You are exactly what this realm requires.”

“I’m not like you, Lord Varys. I don’t care about the realm. Only of the North.”

“That’s not entirely true, my lady. Now more than ever, you, too have a great interest in seeing that the capital remains a safe enough place for your brother. Tyrion may have lost a bit of Daenerys’ favor, but she’s no fool. Taking the Iron Throne is one thing, but keeping it? Each of us knows what can happen to the kings and queens that sit on that throne. Tyrion’s support is now more valuable to her more than ever. He is her only connection to you, and she needs you more than she knows right now.”

“I doubt she’d see it that way…”

“Lady Stark, I’m not sure what exactly Littlefinger taught you, but you’re likely far more dangerous than a tempered queen with two dragons if given enough reason to provoke. It could go that way, given enough time.”

“Then why not just kill me now while you have the chance? If I’m so dangerous, wouldn’t it be easier to get me out of the way of your precious realm?”

“Why are we even talking about this?” Tyrion growled.

“Killing you is not the answer. That’s exactly what I told my queen before she left Winterfell. The realm needs you to play your part in the peace to come. I know you have an idea of what we’re going to do next. I suspect it starts with the most unlikely kingdom given your tumultuous history,” Lord Varys said, slipping his undivided attention to Theon with a knowing smirk. “I’ve watched Lord Bran for some time now. I know he sent a raven separate from the one you sent to Pyke prior to the day of your attack.”

Straightening her spine, Sansa parted her lips as she softly gasped, saying, “I only sent word back to Yara about Theon’s life. I thought she ought to have known he was well, considering the alternative.” Swallowing, she glanced over to Theon, who shook his head. Sliding her gaze back to the Spider. “What business does Bran have with Pyke?”

Lord Varys glanced down at the map, his attention focusing on the Iron Islands before he added, “He caught me spying on him in the great hall while writing that message. He said nothing save that he was waiting for me and that I would understand when it was necessary…From what I hear, Yara Greyjoy left Pyke about a fortnight ago. My little birds whisper that she comes only with enough men to man the single ship she docked at Torrhen's Square at least four days ago.”

“If Daenerys finds out Yara’s here along with Robin…” she muttered, choking on her next breath. Reaching for her stomach, the lady stifled a panicked sob in her chest. Checking down at Tyrion, she wiped under her eyes before the tears could slip through her tight control. He nodded once, leaning his head back against the rolling chair as he stared up at her with so much reassurance. The tight ball wound in her chest eased.

“From what it sounds like, she’s taken measures to obscure her trip here. Varys is here for another week, and Daenerys will be distracted with the Iron Throne for at least a few months.”

“All she has to do is hop on Drogon and fly up here. I think she’d enjoy burning my family home to the ground very much…”

Tyrion gripped the armrests of his chair until his hands shook. Flattening his mouth into a thin line, he shook his head, looking only at her. “Sansa, if you won’t let me distract myself with self-doubt, then it’s only fair I not let you get distracted by fear...not when we’re together.”

Lady Stark bit her bottom lip again, fisting both hands at her sides. Swallowing, Sansa sighed, releasing the tension in her hands until her fingers relaxed. She nodded, switching her focus back over to Lord Varys. Reluctantly, she answered, “The Ironborn are only part of my loose idea.”

“So you have one?” Tyrion asked. 

“It’s only a possibility, but I suspect it’s true…” The lady didn’t want to build up too much excitement around the idea. There was much she still didn’t know. 

“Sansa, I’ll help you with any holes. Any lead is better than working with nothing,” Tyrion said with more confidence than he’d had in the last few minutes. When she looked down at him, he nodded.

Clearing her throat, she dropped her gaze to the northwestern part of the map spread over the war table, anchoring on the mountain range just beyond the Wall. “For the last three nights, I’ve poured my undivided attention in two old books. One of them more than the other. I’m not sure how old exactly, but I know that it was written by a man who’d been approached by a self-proclaimed warg with a specific message meant for the author, who only left the name of Stark. For eight thousand years, we’ve not had any reach to the resources beyond the Wall. One of the tomes suggested the warg who gave him the message mentioned the possibility of a gold mine.”

“A mountain with an untapped gold mine…” Tyrion repeated, sounding distant as he studied the map on the war table.

Sansa smirked, a soft chuckled disrupting her neutral features. “Not just a mountain. It’s supposedly the whole mountain range, Lord Tyrion.”

“If the Iron Bank found this out…” the Spider gravely mused, eyes fixed on King’s Landing.

Sighing, the lady glanced over to Lord Varys. “I kept thinking about any advantages that would buy us more time in the present so much that I’d almost forgotten to think that far ahead. The Iron Bank will no doubt be a problem for the dragon queen, likely sooner rather than later.”

“I must say, if this song is true, then you’d be the most powerful kingdom in Westeros.”

“I thought that this morning, too. However, Daenerys will never agree to hand over the lands beyond the Wall to me if she knows about this. Not unless I win a war against her forces and dragons. I need time to reorganize the North. But not for war. My people won’t survive after a few months without food. Our stores are lower than they ought to be. Not without a safe place to shelter them from a long winter.”

“We should confirm whether this lead is true or not. Soon,” Tyrion added, voice low and distant.

“Who all knows about this?” Varys inquired, joining his hands at his hips.

“Only the four of us. And probably Bran...”

“Lady Sansa,” Theon quietly said as he rounded the table to join her at her side. “You said the Iron Islands are a part of your idea...how?”

“I won’t let the North forget the heroes of Winterfell, Theon. You are among them.”

Theon looked to the ground, shaking his head like he was unworthy of her. “No, I only did what any man would do.”

“Theon, you’re more my brother than both Bran and Jon,” Sansa admitted. It was true. It was possibly a scandalous confession, but Theon would never be someone she lied to, nor someone she willingly forced to choose her. He balked at her gentle touch at his chin as she lifted it so he met her gaze. He swallowed so roughly that he cringed. “You don’t have to choose who you are anymore. Whether your place is here with me or with Yara at Daenerys’ side, we’ll always be family.”

“W-what are you saying?”

“The last heir of House Flint of Flint’s Finger died in the battle. I’m naming you Lord of Flint’s Finger, Theon. Cape Kraken is yours…”

Theon’s features darkened as he stood beside her shaking his head. “I’m _not_ a Northman.”

“No, you’re not...You’re Ironborn. You went to Daenerys, and she gave Yara the Iron Islands’ independence, but she didn’t consider that, in order to completely dismantle your way of life, you’d need land. How can we all have peace if your kingdom is starving and desperate for resources? You’d go back to how things have always been, and I’d lose you. Because I wouldn’t ask you to fight against your sister. I imagine your uncle has bled most of your last remaining resources dry from making all those ships…”

“I-I’m not worthy of it, though. I’m not a man. I can’t have...children, Lady Sansa. Give it to Yara…” Theon weakly said, shrinking like he’d once looked when Reek was still alive.

Sansa cupped both sides of his face. “Theon, you are a man. Regardless if your heir is Yara’s child or someone else you name, you will always be a part of my family. I don’t know your sister. I only know you. From this day until the end of your days, I name you Lord Theon of House Greyjoy, the Lord of Flint’s Finger. Cape Kraken is yours as soon as a proper treaty can be drafted. Your sister already rides to Winterfell. We’ll discuss this in more detail when she gets here.”

“Sansa, I won’t let you give away any part of the North…”

“And I won’t let you forget who you are,” Sansa said, smiling. “Tormund and I talked before he left for Castle Black. For now, the Wildings will absorb into the North manning the Night’s Watch at the Wall. He said everything beyond it is mine. The North doesn’t need the cape, Theon.”

“No, I-I betrayed you...You asked me to light the candle in the tower, but I told Ramsay instead...he hurt you...started cutting you...Made _me_ cut you…And I did it without question.”

“You know what he was, what he made you be. You’ve never hurt me, Theon...you know who that was, and he’s dead...just like Ramsay Bolton.”

“Reek? Theon...What does it matter? All of it was me, Sansa.”

When the Ironborn features broke, Lady Stark hauled him into her protective embrace, turning them around, so Tyrion and Lord Varys couldn’t see him breaking. The fabric of her gown at her waist snagged as Theon clutched onto her for dear life, trembling against her as he quietly sobbed. The soft noises of his sorrow made Sansa’s eyes well up. Her tender hands stroked his back, soothing away what pain she could. Resting her chin on his shoulder, the lady stared over Tyrion, who watched her with unparalleled sadness.

The world would never be perfect for either of them. Not when she found it as easy as breathing when it came to loving her family’s traitors. But Sansa knew he had to carve out his own path in this life they’d been left together in after all the horror. The man she watched was her path. It was possible that she and Theon may fight on opposite sides of a war to come. Perhaps they’d remain allies, but they may see each other so little because of his other obligations. However, like she and Tyrion were joined in a way more intimate than any physical act, Sansa and Theon shared a special bond that she’d never stop cherishing. Despite everything he’d done or what he thought, Sansa believed he deserved to be happy, whatever that may have looked like for him.

“Please tell me you’ll accept…” she asked when he settled down a bit.

Theon pulled away only far enough to search her hesitant features. Brushing some of her hair out of her face, he nodded once. “I renounced all claim to the Iron Islands, Sansa. But I will do everything I can to make sure our kingdoms know peace...even if that means I must renounce my family forever...or die by your side if Daenerys…”

“I would never ask you to do any of that.”

Theon’s expression twitched as he shook, still not willing to leave the safety of her arms. “Yara is my sister. Greyjoy is my name. The sea is my blood...but Winterfell...is my home, and you? You are my family, Sansa. Standing beside you isn’t only a choice I’m making. It’s also my purpose. I fought the Night King to protect Lord Bran. I will fight for the Starks, and die for you and your family...even Lord Tyrion, if I must.”

The lady straightened as she fought the need to share his quiet sob. Gasping, Lady Stark smiled despite it shooting unbearable pain across her body. “Theon, you will always be my brother. Even if you choose to go back with Yara. But if you stay, you will be the Lord of Flint’s Finger...a Northern lord by proxy.”

The Ironborn struggled to swallow down a lump of chaotic emotion before he took a deep breath, nodded over and over until a broken smirk raised in the corner of his mouth. “Am I allowed to rename the castle?” he asked, a forced laugh breaking up his words.

Lady Stark pried a soft chuckle from her chest. “Maps can always be changed, Theon. Call it whatever you like. It’s yours.” After another few seconds, Theon pulled away from her, wiping his nose with his wrist and sighing. Clearing her throat, Sansa looked to Lord Varys, who appeared like he was about to speak anyway.

“My lady, I must leave in a week’s time. Any more time and I fear Daenerys may suspect me of conspiring with you if she doesn’t already.”

“What will you tell her when you return?” Tyrion asked, his quizzical expression inscrutable.

“I hope to inform my queen that Lady Sansa wishes to meet with her to discuss terms of peace...somewhere neutral preferably,” Lord Varys said, fixing his attention on Lady Sansa. “But would you agree, my lady?”

“I likely won’t leave the North, but I’m open to discussing where any future negotiations may take place. I like the idea of it being away from Winterfell...perhaps even the North itself. We don’t have enough food to host such an event. However, if peace is to exist in Westeros, every queen should attend. Yara must be there, too.”

“Sounds like something we could call a Queen’s Meet…” Tyrion said, lifting a single brow as he let Sansa ponder over the term. 

“I will relay this information to my queen. Ideally, the Vale could be a neutral enough place to host this gathering.”

“Daenerys likely won’t meet in a kingdom that has any familial affiliation with Lady Stark.”

Lord Varys sighed. “Then where would you suggest, my lord?”

Tyrion swallowed, anchoring his undivided attention to Sansa. “Do you trust me, Sansa?”

The lady shook her head, hands shaking as her breath audibly caught. “I do, but I won’t go there.”

“The Rock is neutral, seeing how I’m its residing lord for now...I doubt Daenerys will let me keep it after all of my many failures with her. I honestly don’t want it. I told you my place is wherever you are, but you mentioned earlier that the North’s population has suffered tremendous casualties.”

“You want Lannister bannermen flocking to the North?”

“Some might still be loyal to me, my name…”

Sansa glared at the man across the room. “They’re loyal to your father, whom you killed and wanted you dead for decades, Tyrion.”

“I’m not saying it’s a perfect solution to the North’s problem. Only that some of the people of the Westerlands may choose to come back North with me to a place with infinite prospects of a better life and an entire mountain range of gold. They’re knowledgeable about a plethora of things. Winterfell can become a proper capital of its own. Casterly Rock is centuries ahead of Winterfell in terms of modern conveniences and architecture. I don’t doubt your Northmen, but at least be willing to concede that this is a viable solution, my lady.”

Lady Stark dropped her eyes to where King’s Landing was on the map, biting her thumbnail as her posture caved in a little. “The last time I rode south, Tyrion, your family kept me hostage while they butchered the rest of mine,” Sansa murmured, her voice sounding weaker than she had ever heard and even more pathetic than how she used to complain and whine about every little thing being unfair. A nearby chair distracted her as she sank further into her memories, and she quietly sat, folding her arms across her chest as she stared at the floor. Many silent seconds ticked by, but eventually, Tyrion’s shoes came into her view. When she saw his hand extended between them, she instantly took it.

“Sansa, look at me…” When she did, Tyrion kissed the back of her hand and massaged her wrist on the inside of her thick sleeve. “This won’t happen for some months at the very least. We’ll remarry before we go, so I can remain at your side always. I won’t let Daenerys or anyone at Casterly Rock hurt you.”

Swallowing, Sansa met his gaze, seeing the promise blossom until it tamed the unbridled, cold fear whispering down to her bones. “I know,” she whispered. Looking over to Lord Varys, she nodded once. “Tell Daenerys we can meet at Casterly Rock when the time is right.”

“Lady Sansa,” Theon muttered over her shoulder. The lady anchored her attention on him, and he continued, “I’ll have Yara send one of our ships, and we can travel by sea from Torrhen's Square.”

While Sansa gazed at Theon, she felt Tyrion interlock their fingers together in his lap. The smallest smile stretched the corner of her mouth as she nodded. “Okay…” she replied, swallowing. Straightening her horrid posture, the lady looked to Tyrion. “What do you know about running a brothel?”

The dwarf choked on a breath as he stared at her like she’d grown a second head or something. “My lady, I’m more familiar with how to patron them…”

“You were the Master of Coin in King’s Landing when we married. Do you think you can manage a single brothel for a time?”

His brows dipped down toward his nose, the ugly scar moving with his animated features. “I suppose it’s not all that foreign a concept to me.”

“The Red Wolf is a much better name to be known as than the Queen of the Whores, my lady…”

Avoiding Tyrion’s gaze, Sansa curled a stray strand of hair behind the curve of her ear. “I’ve personally known one whore, Lord Varys. I cannot comment on how she treated Lord Tyrion. I wasn’t there, but she was nothing but decent toward me. During the Battle of the Blackwater, she tried to keep me safe when we all thought Stannis would win. She looked after me and allowed me to whine to her about my misfortune...or anything, really. I will not stand idly by as my people, Northern lords or whores alike, suffer. For now, at least until we can find a suitable owner, the brothel in Winter Town is under the direct protection of Winterfell.”

Tyrion lifted her hand, so he could press a warm, lingering kiss into her palm. Snagging her attention, he smiled when a light blush colored her cheeks. “And what of the Northman?”

Sighing, Sansa stroked her thumb on the back of his hand, saying, “I’m sure Bronn would appreciate some company for a little while. I will not kill him, but he will face a punishment once other more immediate circumstances are dealt with…”

“A wise decision, Your Grace,” Lord Varys said, an approving smirk nestling at the edge of his mouth.

Parting her lips before she spoke, Sansa dipped her brows. “I’m not yet a queen.”

“Perhaps you should begin making preparations…”

“It’s still too soon, Lord Varys. I will think about wearing a crown as soon as I can confirm whether my new mountain range bleeds gold or not.”

* * *

**I'm trying to write the next few chapters all at once, so don't be alarmed if I don't update until next week! I doubt the next few chapters will be as long as the last few have been.**


	10. Heart made of glass, mind of stone

* * *

**Chapter 10**

_Winterfell_

Tyrion

* * *

“Pod, I said I wanted to go back to my room…” Tyrion muttered, itching his pinching chest before the old squire leaned down and batted his hand down. Growling, the dwarf slammed his teeth together. “I’m convinced you and Maester Wolkan have conspired against me. I can’t have wine, not that the North exactly knows what the fucking substance is, nor can I lie down for more than four hours. We’ve already been to the library and the great hall and toured the rest of the castle _twice._ ”

“The maester said it’s all part of your healing process, my lord,” the squire answered, unbothered by the fact that the recovering man imagined dozens of ways a man of his size could dismember him. “He wants you up often and as active as possible.”

“I sat in a tiny crate for weeks sailing across the Narrow Sea and traveled even more in a small wheelhouse. None of that is as unnerving as this! Wolkan wants me active? Tell him I’ve personally imagined about a thousand ways to destroy this fucking chair!”

The faithful squire continued to push the blasted rolling chair, purposely turning down the opposite corner than the one Tyrion knew would lead to his makeshift room. Chuckling, Pod turned them around and walked up a small flight of stairs backward. “My lord, it’s not your mind that he needs to be active.”

“Then the least he could do is give me wine!”

“Lord Tyrion, do you want me to ask him again?”

Tyrion growled, his expression souring more and more by the minute. “It’s no use...He’s more stubborn than Ser Brienne. If _that’s_ somehow possible.”

“Well, we’re almost there, my lord.”

“We’re almost where?”

“I can’t say. It would spoil everything,” the squire replied, stopping the chair before a closed door with a bright orange glow radiating in the crack between the edge of the door and the floor. Podrick stepped around the rolling chair, opening the door of a room that was distinctly _not_ Tyrion’s. In fact, it was only a few doors down from Sansa’s quarters. 

Heat drowned him the more the door creaked open. Within, the early morning’s light trickled in between the iron crossings in the window in his direct view. A desk a little shorter than what was standard sat in the middle of the large entry area atop an expansive, plush pelt rug. An inkwell with a stiff, red feathered quill kept a neat stack of loose papers company at the center of it. Red tapestries and long banners colored the dreary gray walls, almost camouflaging the cold stones. 

Swallowing, Tyrion hung his mouth open, but before he could speak, he slipped his gaze over toward the laughably large sized bed at the opposite side of the spacious, warm quarters. The small book in Sansa’s palms thumped closed, and Tyrion swore her cheeks flushed with a faint hint of color. Any further complaint or gripe in Tyrion’s mind fell away as he watched the young Lady of Winterfell smile when their gazes tangled for the first time in a little under an entire day. Nobody had ever been so visibly happy to see him. 

Beyond that, she wasn’t in a chair. Rather, she relaxed on the bed he deduced was now his. Swallowing, the dwarf balled his hand on his stomach when the area felt hollow, yet tight. A window almost directly behind her shined an ethereal, glowing outline of soft light around her copper hair, which was only a few shades lighter than the deep burgundy linens on the mattress. Gracefully, Lady Sansa lowered the book down to the foot of the bed, where a dark pelt splayed, by her thigh.

The lady glanced up to Podrick, who Tyrion had all but forgotten by now, and said, “Thank you, Pod…”

“Of course, Lady Stark,” the boy replied, his voice much too cheery this early. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

With her single nod, the door behind Tyrion softly closed. Sansa’s perfect features glowed as she bit her lip, sucking in a sharp breath before filling their extended silence. “I hope you don’t mind...I had your things moved here when the servants finally located the old tapestries from storage.”

Tyrion looked down at his hands, furrowing his brows as his eyes narrowed and a stupid, wide grin stretched his uncommonly quiet mouth. After searching the floor for what to say, he shook his head. “I don’t mind at all...How’d Winterfell come by so much red decor?”

Sansa’s mouth twitched in a corner as she drew a deep breath. “I was a rather dramatic girl with one simple goal and many stupid dreams of marrying the future king of the Seven Kingdoms…”

The words sobered the dwarf of any nerves fluttering around his body. Somewhere in their history, he’d repulsed her. Of course, marrying _any_ Lannister at the time would have warranted a similar reaction from her; however, Tyrion wondered, for a brief second, if when the magic and allure of his saving her down in the crypts wore off she’d still look at him like she was a moment ago. It was as if she sensed his dark thoughts because that disarming smile fell away. Because of him. Before he could save the moment, Sansa looked back down toward the book she’d previously held, her delicate fingers tracing the length of its spine as she absently distracted herself.

“Tyrion, I can change my past no more than you could change yours. Everything we’ve endured has brought us together. I’m sure you can imagine a few of the things I thought of you when we first betrothed. I was a spoiled, selfish girl concerned only with the wants and needs of herself for well into my time in King’s Landing. But if you think I only love you because you saved me down in the crypts,” the lady paused, clutching at her stomach like it physically ached. Swallowing, she shook her head. “Then you truly are a fool…”

Gritting his teeth, Tyrion’s features darkened the longer he remained so far away from her. The chair was too big for a man of his size, but he still tried to push the large wheels on his own. He leaned over too far, and his body bit him back until it felt like his skin ripped right off his chest. Slamming his head back against the chair, he sucked air between the tiny crevices of his bared teeth with a hiss, quickly howling a thunderous curse as he scratched at his chest.

The click of Sansa’s boots on the ground sounded so distant as his ears began to ring, but when her soft hand held his, Tyrion stilled. When he opened his eyes, the lady knelt before him. “You’ll be a queen, my lady. You shouldn’t kneel for anyone.”

Sansa placed a quick peck on his cheek, and the dwarf closed his eyes at her warm touch. Smoothing hair from his face, she pulled back, hands still entangled in his. “Maester Wolkan said you can start walking, but not very far. I wanted this room to be comfortable for you, so I’ve brought up a few dull books for you to peruse at your leisure. I didn't know what you’d already read or preferred, so I had Sam bring up twenty-five to start, including the two books I mentioned in the war room two days ago. If you find any that do not interest you, simply ask for him, and he can supply you with a general inventory of what we have here.”

Tyrion caught his breath when she started easing him toward the edge of the chair. Grunting, she held him back, so he didn’t move too sharply or suddenly. Within seconds, her hands steadied high on the outside of his right thigh and his back. Even through all the layers, the heat of her skin resonated against him. 

“Lay your hand on my shoulder if you need any more support, my lord,” Sansa whispered.

Before he gained confidence in his own strength, he instantly slipped his awkward hand over the curve of her shoulder when his ass got too close to the edge. Swallowing, Tyrion muttered, “Thank you.”

Wobbling a bit once he got on his feet, the dwarf cleared his throat, eyes never leaving hers as they basically stood nose-to-nose, albeit for once he was taller. Though only slightly. Sansa adjusted the skirts of her gown, which pooled around her hips. The lady moved her hand up slowly from his thigh up to his hip, her fingers clutching the excess fabric poorly tucked into his breeches.

Tyrion moaned, a shiver rocking up and down his spine. “You shouldn’t touch me, Lady Stark,” he warned, a mix between heavy breaths and pants scratching at his throat. He swallowed and grasped some of her loose hair.

Grabbing his wrist, Sansa shoved her head against his as she closed her eyes, her light laughter sounding like a melody as she breathlessly murmured, “Tyrion, we’ve talked about this.”

“You can’t tell me you love me and expect me not to need you, Sansa. Not when you’ve forbidden me from saying it back,” he grumbled, moving his thumb to stroke her high cheekbone. “It’s not all that fair.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like I once did…”

Narrowing his eyes at her with a quick shake of his head, he sighed. “You’re just being unreasonable.”

Leaning her lips into his palm, she pecked his rough skin there several times. “No…”

After a moment of silence, the dwarf knit his brows together. “Care to elaborate, my lady?”

“If you say it back, then I’ll have to stop pretending I have enough strength to stay away from you.”

“Fuck…”

The lady’s smile widened. “Care to elaborate, my lord?”

“I’ll elaborate when you’re officially my wife again and I have you alone for at least a week.”

“My goodness, Tyrion. A full week? Assuming I want you to share my bed, of course…” Sansa joked, lips lopsided and throat bobbing.

“This time, you’ll want me in your bed, likely for hours at a time if the desire in your pretty, pale eyes is real.” Finally, the dwarf was rewarded with the deepest blush he’d seen from her yet. His gaze dipped toward her throat, lowering his hand until he cupped the wild lump bouncing up and down there as she blinked her eyes closed, leaning her head back as he cradled the back of her head with his free hand. Tyrion loved these small victories she permitted him to see. Although her home and guard were made of ice, Sansa Stark was liquid fire in his arms. 

“I never imagined it could be for me, but it is real, Tyrion. Only for you,” Lady Stark confessed, the words almost inaudible.

Despite her being a lady born of an ancient House, Tyrion still wondered how wet she was for him right now. He knew he needed to end this, but he indulged in his own unrivaled passion for a moment longer. If he was a better man, he would set her free. But he wasn’t. He’d been immobile for more than sixteen days and celibate for gods know how many years. The bulk of him was happy he’d waited, though not necessarily for her. Fuck, maybe he had and hadn’t even known it. He couldn’t think straight right now. All he knew was that Sansa had unleashed a deluge of years upon years of sexual starvation. The dwarf had fucked his way through his twenties and thirties. In his past were three women who he believed he’d loved. Perhaps he had in his own quest of eradicating the somber loneliness anchored in his soul, but nothing had ever been as bold or brighter than Sansa Stark. 

This love was the first. It was real, and not too far from his stunted reach.

Carefully leaning into her, he gently bit her ear lobe, whispering, “I’m warning you, Sansa. When you’re my wife again, I’m never going to let you go…” 

He hated vows. They often tore people apart. Hell, he’d seen firsthand what opposing ones did to his brother. But the lady trembling in his arms was worthy of any vow he could conjure and more. Far more worthy than anything he could give her, to be sure. Until his dying day, she would be the single person he’d honor everything he promised her. He’d been unable to uphold the inherited vows he never volunteered to give to his family, nor had he been able to keep his loyalty to Daenerys or Shae. Something far more dangerous or greater had always stopped him. Namely his father, the man he’d only wanted to make happy. But everything and everyone that could keep him apart from Sansa was either dead or would be taken care of in the months to come. Together, they shook against the other, grasping at anything to help keep them close. 

In a few hours, Robin Arryn would arrive at the castle. More time than the boy’s entire life spanned between him and the woman in his grasp. Sinking to his knees, Tyrion’s mouth hung open as their breaths tangled between them, heavy and needy and deep. He’d spent a fortune on women to pretend to make him feel a morsel of what Sansa did. This woman knew what he’d done with his bare hands to Shae; yet, she made no move to tear away from his hand tracing faint vein trails up and down her throat. When she swallowed, he fidgeted his fingers to adjust.

Tyrion couldn’t keep doing this, torturing her whilst knowing he couldn’t love her yet. It would be so easy for them to make love in this empty room...in the spacious bed, to sheathe his cock inside of her and work himself in and out of her until they broke apart. All he had to do was continue easing her down this dangerous road toward desire, the world he’d known for so long. But they knew that making love would flip their worlds apart, changing everything they knew about life. It would get them both killed if they gave in now. They’d learned that from their own and others’ mistakes.

Tyrion would do anything for Sansa, and it was high time for him to start proving that. Even if it killed him. Swallowing, he slid his hand back to her shoulder, clearing his throat as he said, “Help me toward the bed?”

Sansa opened her eyes, opting to stare up at the ceiling for a few seconds before she washed away any trace of the fire that had previously scorched him. Meeting his stare, she nodded, biting the bottom lip he yearned to take between his again. “Of course…” 

Tyrion searched her tired expression, taking note of the dark circles under her eyes. Six nights in a row had she shocked this side of the castle awake throughout all hours until morning. They’d agreed to send word to Castle Black about starting a small search party in the mountains. The North needed that gold. Sansa sent Lord Howland Reed yesterday to the Wall with a few of his bannermen with supplies should the search party locate anything.

The lady rearranged her skirts as he stood back to his feet. Her hands on either of his hips made him grit his teeth. Here she was trying to help stabilize him, and he still couldn’t get his thoughts in order. If she noticed, Sansa made no effort to chastise him. Rather, both remained quiet until she scooted closer toward the bed, where he sank, leaning against the side. Resting his head against the bunchy mattress, he watched as she found the best way to sit without ruining her gown. He’d never seen her slouch as much as she was right now to accommodate to his stature. Resting her cheek against the mattress, she readjusted her body until their noses almost touched. Without looking away from his mesmerized stare, Sansa managed to find his hand, folding her fingers over his misshapen hand. 

“Whose room was this?”

Biting her lip, Lady Stark stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. “Robb’s...it had the best shelves and is the closest unoccupied room to my quarters.”

“I thought you were pretending to have the strength to stay away from me…”

The fire snapped, stealing her attention briefly before she sat up to reach for the small book at the foot of his bed. Offering it to Tyrion, Sansa relaxed her body back against the bed by his side. With a shy smile, the lady said, “About a year before Robert came to Winterfell, Arya kept bothering me when I was practicing an especially complicated stitch for a dress I was trying to make. I ended up in the library of all places. I dropped my needle in only a few minutes. I heard footsteps, and I thought Arya had found me again...Under one of the tables in the center of the room, I knocked a stone loose searching for it. Within was this book.”

When her eyes sank to the book, Sansa nodded, and Tyrion slowly opened the book, revealing the name Lyanna Stark. The pages didn’t feel more than fifty years old. Inscribed underneath the name read, “ _A dangerous love will always find a way to survive. If you’re reading this, you’ve found my most precious treasure. May your father never discover our little secret..._ ”

Narrowing his eyes, Tyrion met Sansa’s peaceful, pale gaze. “I don’t understand…”

“This book is littered with filth. It shocked me when I read the first five pages the first time. I threw it back into the small hole and forgot about it for months. I was so scared my mother would find out what I’d read. Until one day when I worked up the courage to read to page twelve. Slowly, I managed to read all the way up to page thirty-nine…”

“What’s on page thirty-nine?” he asked, distracted as he flipped through the book to find the right page. Within the first sentence, he understood. _Ceria captured Ostar’s cock in her mouth._ The words had been added in over a scratched out sentence of the original story with delicate handwriting. Coughing, the dwarf slammed the book closed and stilled when he settled his attention back to Sansa, who smiled demurely and blushed a pretty shade of pink. Laughing, Tyrion asked, “Why would you read this so young? You thought shit was pronounced shift. Hardly the type of girl to dare read such a naughty tale....or rather, an edited reimagining.”

“The story was different from the others my mother bought me. Ostar’s missing a leg from an old battle. The other stories only told of handsome princes and knights who are in one piece saving princesses or ladies. I remember being repulsed when I realized he had only one leg, but in the time I spent apart from this book, I had to know more. It shocked me more than anything ever had up to that point...even more than the notes on page thirty-nine. I was only a selfish, vain girl. I had no idea that anything different could be,” she explained. Reaching for Tyrion’s cheek, she brought their lips together for only a brief second before parting. “I never got the chance to dive deeper into the story. I’m hoping you’ll read it to me.”

“Page thirty-nine?”

“No,” she whispered, pressing her lips together and brows dipping toward her nose. “The whole book. I’ve kept this book in my room since we retook Winterfell. I started to hate the sight of it for what it meant…”

“What did it mean?”

The fire snapped rather loudly, ensnaring her attention from Tyrion. The longer she stared at the fire, the more the ache at his chest burned him—for once having nothing to do with his injuries. Sinking her eyes to her fidgety hands in her lap, the lady evaded his vulnerable stare, murmuring, “I can’t remember what Ramsay did to me beyond all the scars and our wedding night. Not even Joffrey could have prepared me for so much pain. I’m not sure if I passed out from the agony leading up to him repeatedly...raping me and doing savage and unspeakable things to me...or if I lived through it and I’ve somehow figured out how to block it all out of my memory.”

“You think you’re unable to…” Tyrion muttered, trailing off due to a lack of what to call sex with her now. Fucking was something he’d always enjoyed calling it, but he would sooner die than remind her of the horrors she claimed to not remember. And what Bolton had done to her...it would never be appropriate to equate it to making love, as his instincts would have once told a proper lady...had any asked him.

“Don’t dance around me, Tyrion. There’s so much I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to do with you. I don’t want to miss out on anything else. Promise me something?”

Tyrion did his best to conceal the tremor dancing up and down his spine, reaching between them until he cupped her jaw. The pad of his thumb traced her lower lip as he leaned his head against the mattress. The angle he was in strained injuries a bit, but he wasn’t about to pull away from Sansa when she opened up to him. Out of everyone in his world, she loved him. So much it made him breathless. “I’d give you the stars if I could, Sansa. Anything…”

“Be yourself with me,” she replied softly. Shivering at his touch, Sansa swallowed, taking a long curl framing his face between her fingers. “I’m not sure how much you still have left to give away, but I’ve been told I’m a selfish girl. I need you more than anyone else does, Tyrion.”

The dwarf strained up a little, so he could kiss the tip of her nose, grunting when his injuries hissed at him. Easing back, he dipped his forehead to her lips. She pressed delicate kisses against his skin, spending more attention where his scar started to disappear into his wild hair. Grabbing her hand, Tyrion sealed his lips on her palm. Likely over a thousand women had seen his deformed, ugly body by now. Their cunts had all swallowed his not-so-little cock, succumbing to the gross reality that a man as hideous and disfigured like him could actually bring some of them pleasure for a time. But not until Sansa Stark had he ever known real intimacy. Neither of them had seen much of the other. Pulling back, he parted his mouth to speak, but no words volunteered to string coherently enough into a sentence for a few more seconds. So, he simply adored her quietly as he looked up at her with more wonder and magic than he’d seen with Daenerys Targaryen.

“My life began the night I thought I’d die for you, Sansa. I’ve waited almost forty-one years for you. There is no other woman who has any part of me that you do not. My life, my love, and my legacy are only for you.”

The lady froze, looking down at him like he’d struck her. Those icy eyes welled as she gasped, her breathing fractured and quick. “I told you not to say it back…”

“You don’t need to pretend to be strong, Sansa. You’re the fiercest woman I know. And even if you weren’t, I’m going to be strong for your sake. The dragon queen may be stormborn, but, together, we will be the storm. Because I love you, Sansa of House Stark.”

Tears fell down the lady’s face, and she made no move to wipe them away. Jaw shaking as her mouth hung, Sansa took his hand and guided it to her heart, thrashing and beating wildly underneath the layers of her gown. The curve of her small breast teased Tyrion’s knuckles as Lady Stark pushed his hand until his palm lay flat against her body, his fingers restless over his name carved along her collarbone. Sansa leaned down, brushing the edges of their mouths together without sealing them together as he half expected her to do.

“Tyrion of House Lannister,” Sansa whispered, her fingernails scratching the thick stubble he’d refused to shave now that he knew she preferred him with it. “I love you,” she added, choking on her uncontrollable breaths. More tears warmed her pale features. “So much.”

They exchanged a most tender, sweet look for a moment as they allowed each other to revel in this forbidden moment. The stakes were too far high for them to collide right now. Not once moving his hand from where she still kept him on her chest, Tyrion swallowed and captured one of her long copper locks between his fingers. When he reached the ends, he twirled the soft, straight hair around his finger, his mind lingering all the other ways he wanted to touch her. Helplessly, the dwarf furrowed his brows and fell back against the bed, his head shaking with the gentle impact.

“When you’re my wife, I’m going to show you a world of possibilities you never imagined, Sansa. The world’s not prepared for how much I plan on loving you…” Tyrion’s promise earned another pretty blush, its pink and crimson undertones highlighting her glassy gaze. Searching her eyes a bit more, the dwarf scrunched his face as the small of his back pinched. “Perhaps we should get off the floor…”

Sansa smiled gloriously, nodding as she said, “Okay.”

The lady gracefully moved from where they sat on the stone floor to the mattress. When she reached for Tyrion, he held a hand between them. “I haven’t been able to even wipe the shit from my own ass for more than two weeks. I’d like to try on my own,” he muttered, bending his arm to grasp the bed’s frame with one hand. His grip on her book tightened as he made a slow attempt to rise. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to you…”

“Don’t be. For the last few years, I’ve been around Wildlings, Littlefinger, and Arya. Of the three, I’d say Arya’s the worst of them. She’s always trying to debauch my vocabulary with all the filthy words she’s learned in her travels since we planned out Littlefinger’s execution.”

“I know all about debauchery, Lady Stark…” The dwarf struggled to stand, but eventually, he managed to stumble until he sank into the mattress beside Lady Stark with a heavy huff deflating his chest. “Let’s play a game! Please tell me we have wine here,” he groaned, clutching his chest. When Sansa did not reply, he glanced up at her, seeing that her attention was over to his desk. “Lady Stark?”

“Let me get it...I brought some up earlier this morning before I asked Pod to get you.”

“Thank the gods…”

Standing, the lady walked over to his desk rather than the far table, where Tyrion noticed the wine and two goblets. Slowly, she approached the chair, where a simple black fur cloak hung. Her fingers disappeared into the thick, wispy fur at the shoulders. “I haven’t seen you wear a proper cloak since you’ve been in the North. You told me you planned on staying here, so I made you one to tide you over until I can make you a better one. We don’t have many materials to spare just yet.”

“You made it?” Tyrion asked, echoing exactly what she’d just said. Like an idiot, he added, “For me…”

_“It’s your counsel I need…” Daenerys said, an easy smirk warming her features. It had always been easy for him, a dwarf with nothing left to his name, to work a smile from her, the mother of dragons and future queen of the Seven Kingdoms._

_“It’s yours…now and always.”_

_A woman so beautiful stood almost at equal height with a similar smile directed down at him, the Imp, the Halfman, the grotesque monster so unworthy of even his father’s legacy. His smile widened when she looked down. This woman offered him the chance to fuck his father’s name and the legacy he died with, to create a legacy of his own. It was more than any woman had given him._

_“I, um…” Daenerys said, sheepishly glancing back at him. “I had something made for you…” she added, busying herself with fetching something out of the dark, elegant fabric draping over her petite, lithe body. “I’m not sure if it’s right…”_

_It didn’t matter if it was right or not. Tyrion only knew that this woman was the only safe person a man like him could love without getting hurt. If Tysha and Shae hadn’t proven to him about the disaster that love was for him, then his wife, Sansa, certainly had underlined it in the proverbial stone. A flash of her pretty red hair almost escaped from the confines of his buried heart. It didn’t matter that he saw a gentle, happy future with the Stark girl toward the end of their sham marriage. He knew he’d repulsed her. She hadn’t even begun to show a hint of interest in him sharing her bed, not even when things had finally become comfortable for them._

_Tyrion saw the lie of the life he thought he’d seen with Lady Sansa. He would have tripped over his feet for her eventually, while she’d have never wanted him in return. It was the same story no matter the woman._

_Until now…_

_The gods seemed to be done making his life one long joke playing on repeat. They’d delivered to him a woman who could never love him in return. He could serve her and live in peace from ever loving another...someone who would only hurt him like all the others._

“If you don’t like it or don’t want to wear it, don’t feel that you must. It’s not my best work. It’s not like Jon’s…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sansa. Of course, I will wear it. It’s just that no one’s ever personally made anything like this for me.” When she checked on him over her shoulder, he gave her a hopeful, honest smile. When she nodded, the lady moved toward the small table where the wine was. “Forget the wine, Sansa…”

Sansa turned, searching his features with furrowed brows and a thin mouth. “Are you sure?”

“We have a lifetime for my game...right now you should rest. Let me read to you.”

Grasping the steel loop between her collarbones, she bit her lip and fidgeted with it before saying, “I might fall asleep…”

“I’m hoping you do.”

“Do I look that bad?”

“Sansa, you’re perfect, but it’s been six days since you’ve stopped being able to sleep through the night. Your cousin will be here by the middle of the afternoon. You have to sleep if you want a sharp mind.”

A gentle laugh sang to him from across the room, warming a smile from the corner of his mouth. “Lord Tyrion, is that why you so poorly led the siege of Westeros for Daenerys? A lack of sleep?” she teased, moving back over to his bed and sitting beside him.

Before he could speak, she claimed his hand in hers. Tyrion searched her gaze, swallowing. “It was a bit more complicated than that…” he muttered, dropping his stare to look back to the book on the bed. 

“Tyrion, I didn’t spend my childhood with a love of books or study. Not unless it meant I could learn how to sharpen my skills with my needlework or act more like a southern lady,” she said, reaching for his cheek and forcing him to look at her. “But you’re a story I want to memorize. No matter how unpleasant, I hope to know everything about you as you’re ready to share the contents of your every chapter with me.”

“I’ve already told you how long I’ve waited for you...I’m ready now, my lady. But there is much I wish I could have waited to give you. When you are my wife, I shall give you everything this world has taken from you. Even all of me.”

Sansa pulled away from him, gathering her skirts in her hand to scoot toward the wall. Leaning back against one of the pillows, she stared up at him as he carefully inched back toward the head of the bed to join her, the book still clutched in his hand. Instead of laying down, Tyrion bunched his pillow and rested it vertically against the wall. Settling in a comfortable position, he reached for her and guided her head to rest on his shoulder and chest, but she resisted.

“Tyrion, your wounds…”

“I already said fuck the pain weeks ago. I meant it. Besides, it's more just an irritating amount of itchy discomfort that’s left. The maester keeps a steady supply of Milk of the Poppy each morning in me. Rest, my love.” Sansa obeyed him, setting her hand on his stomach. Switching the book to his opposite hand, the dwarf tangled his fingers between hers on his body. Closing his eyes, the man swallowed, smiling. This was what the rest of his life would be like. He would read to her, love her, and chart an unexplored world with her.

“Tyrion, the reason I stopped sleeping is that I’ve stopped taking the Essence of Nightshade. The castle’s supply is running low, and it doesn’t feel right to take it when there are people who still don’t know if they will survive their injuries from the battle.”

“You’ve taken it every night since killing Ramsay Bolton, haven’t you?”

“One of the last things he said to me before I watched his hounds rip him apart was that he was a part of me now…” Sansa whispered, tightening her hand in his as she tried to hide a shiver from him. “I couldn’t give him the satisfaction after…” the lady muttered, trailing off like she was about to tell him something she’d intended to die with. Clearing her throat, Sansa brought his fingers to her lips. “You’re not the only one with secrets. I have two...I will tell you them one day, one when we marry and the other when Daenerys and I settle into peace…”

Tyrion’s mind raced on the one involving Ramsay, wild, molten ideas raising hell in the core of his soul. Swallowing, he said, “Does the second one have anything to do with what Jon hinted at on the day of your attack?”

“I was wondering when you’d ask about that.”

“Varys certainly has wasted quite a lot of time searching for any devastating link between them.”

“He can never know. Nobody who’s not a Stark can…”

“Is it really that dangerous?”

“It would likely start an all-out war if Jon and Daenerys can’t recover their relationship. It could all be washed away if she had his child…”

“Daenerys is convinced she’ll never bear any children.”

Tyrion heard her chuckle. “A lot can happen between now and never,” Sansa told him, squirming like the words stuck to her skin. 

Something in the pit of his gut squeezed. Grinding his teeth together, Tyrion shook his head. “How do you stomach repeating his words? He’s responsible for the destruction of both our Houses.”

“Because out of anyone else in the game, I was the one who sentenced him to die.”

“Did he ever touch you?” Tyrion asked, anchoring his gaze up at the ceiling and squeezing the book in his hand.

Sansa stretched up, so she could place a kiss at his throat near his ear. “He kissed me once at the Vale and once down in the crypts before he left me here with the Boltons,” she whispered. 

“While I awaited my doomed trial alone...and likely sailed across the Narrow Sea…you let him…”

Lady Stark ripped their hands apart to angle his chin into a position in which she could steal a kiss from his already agape mouth. Even though he tried to pull away, Sansa snatched control of his body from him when she prodded his mouth with her tongue. Exactly like he’d done with her. _Gods_ she learned fast. The prospect of her only knowing things that set him afire teased a tormenting tremble from his spine. Everything she would learn would be from him. For him. No one would ever take that away. And she seemed rather eager to learn everything he was willing to show her. Before he led them too far, Sansa broke their kiss, cupping his jaw and teasing the curve of his ear with her soft thumb. 

“Only for you, Tyrion.” 

The words had quickly become their private promise in the span of only a single conversation. They held more power than anything he’d ever heard, including Dracarys or I am yours, and you are mine. Desperate to taste her again, Tyrion dropped the book onto the bed and stretched to claim her mouth where it ought to be forever. Sealed against his. However, reality shocked him down to his bones when she pushed against his chest to stop him. Rolling his lips inward, the dwarf choked on a curse.

“I’m sorry, but we must stop before our patience or strength wears too thin.”

Tyrion closed his eyes as he sank back into the pillow, reaching for the book and gripping it until the pain subsided. “I’ll read to you as I promised…”

“Start from the beginning. And read it slowly. Your voice soothes me.”

Opening the book, Tyrion cleared his throat. “Sleep, my lady.”

“If I scream or wake up in hysterics, don’t try holding me down...or touching me for a little while. Sometimes I can’t tell where I’m at.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll try talking to you until you calm down,” he told her as she settled back against him. Flipping through the first few pages until he got to the story’s first, Tyrion took a quick breath before scanning over the first few lines. Swallowing, he leaned his head against hers. “Are you sure you want me to read you _this_ story when you’re trying to fall asleep?”

“I’m positive. Now read…”

Sighing, the dwarf cleared his throat again. The notes etched above the crossed out few lines worked a nervous chuckle from his chest. “Ser Ostar Crowley never liked girls with hair the shade of shit. But it couldn’t be helped that he always fell into their beds. After all, a town as small as Pendeley hardly warranted the validation of an establishment as shocking as a brothel. As three brunettes in his bed fought over him, the broken, disgraced knight distracted himself in the daylight breaking through the window across the room.

“Lady Ceria Hallow had the hair the color of sunlight…”

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

_Winterfell_

Sansa

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

“My lady, he should be here to greet our guest,” Ser Brienne said, spitting the words out as she gripped the chain linking down to the chains around Jaime’s ankles. 

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek to stifle the chuckle burrowing in her chest. “Then he will stay,” she replied quietly as she stared at the castle gates expectantly.

“I don’t know why I _have_ to be here. I’m a prisoner here now…”

“Ser Jaime, you are not a prisoner,” Lady Stark said, not bothering to look behind her to speak with him directly.

“Do shut up, Ser Jaime…” Brienne muttered, her lip curling like she smelled shit somewhere close. “You’re here because you need to be reminded of what exactly Lady Stark’s guards do.”

“Well now that you’re finally speaking to me, I should tell you you’re not all that beastly in bed. _Surprisingly_ gentle, actually...”

Sansa’s laugh escaped her throat without her permission, and she covered her mouth. Her brows shot up as she exchanged a look with the knight, who was as red as Sansa’s copper hair.

“Permission to punch Ser Jaime, my lady?”

Shaking her head, Lady Stark said, “You don’t need a reason to punch Jaime Lannister in the face.”

As quickly as she’d spoken the words, her knight shouted and shoved her fist in Jaime’s face. The man fell back against the castle wall with a dramatic groan. Ser Brienne faced forward at Sansa’s side without a second glance at the man she loved. “Thank you and apologies, my lady.”

The winter delicately whispered against Sansa’s cheek as the breeze picked up, the long wisps of fur tickling her cheek when she gulped and chanced a quick glance over to Tyrion, who sat in his rolling chair with Pod close by. The dwarf made a scandalous face at her, making the lady smile. Awake for only a half-hour or so, the Lady of Winterfell couldn’t remember a day when she felt as refreshed and clear as she was right now. In Tyrion’s arms, she’d not woken up once or suffered a nightmare that he did not shush away with his enigmatic, deep voice. Tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear, Sansa checked the gates, sighing when Robin Arryn still wasn’t there.

“I’ve apologized for the last few days, Brienne,” Jaime muttered as he stood back up, his voice sounding more nasally than it ever had.

Brienne sighed but ignored him.

“I’ve never been with anyone other than Cersei. And given the recent plots and developments, I panicked. I will regret hurting you for the rest of my life, which you so painstakingly saved more than once by the way…”

“Ser Jaime, I know you. You’ll say anything to get out of these chains. You killed your own kin to get back to your sister.”

Jaime went quiet for a moment, scoffing audibly. “Ser Brienne, if you’re questioning my honor, go ahead and just get on with it. What’s the point in keeping me alive? You’re no torturer. Kill me right now if I’m so unworthy.”

Brienne’s eyes rolled closed, though she looked like someone had stabbed her or something. When she opened them, Sansa noticed the tears. The bulky knight checked behind her, looking down her nose at the man she’d been so desperate to save just a few weeks ago before Daenerys. “That’s exactly what you want, isn’t it? To die with your precious queen, to be with her always…”

The loud hitch of Ser Jaime’s breath made the lady swallow, turning to peek at him. Honestly, she regretted ever doing so. Jaime Lannister wasn’t a man she ever wanted to sympathize with. Just because she let him stay here didn’t mean she liked or forgave him for everything he’d willingly done to her family. The Kingslayer choked on a visible sob, and tears shined in his tired eyes. When he shook his head, Sansa looked away right before he brokenly muttered, “I left Cersei to come here, to, just once, honor my word. Because of you, Brienne of Tarth. I’m here because I want to live with you, rather than die with her…”

The heartbreak in his voice crippled Sansa and everyone around him into an awkward silence. He’d never displayed so much vulnerability to most of them. Taking a shuddering breath, Lady Sansa inhaled, readying a reply to quell the tension; however, Theon stumbled out of the castle, knocking into her shoulder.

“You don’t owe me anything, Alis....” the Ironborn said, almost tripping over his feet as he backed away from the whore he’d saved from the Northmen days ago.

Alis Blackwood had hair the shade of a crow and eyes as bright as the Northern morning. And a disposition that made even Sansa cringe. Not especially jolly or overly happy, the young girl simply wanted to be helpful while she stayed with the other servants in the castle after what had happened with her. The bruises coloring her face made the lady look away. No older than her cousin, somewhere around the age of sixteen by now, the whore leaned into him, reaching for his shoulder before he could sneak away. “My lord! That man would have killed me if it weren’t for you. I owe you my life!”

“I promise you, you don’t…” he replied, prying her hands off him as he frowned down at her. 

Sighing, Sansa joined her hands behind her back. This was too much drama for one afternoon for her liking. “Alis, why don’t you check with Lord Bran in the library to see if he needs anything?”

The girl’s features radiated. “Right away, my lady!”

“Be sure to share a story or two with him. He does so appreciate listening to them.”

“O-of course!” Alis said, poorly bowing as she rushed back into the castle.

Theon wiped his face with a sigh, looking over at Sansa immediately. Shaking his head when he caught the laughter in her eyes, he grumbled, “Don’t say anything…”

“I haven’t said a word.”

Pointing at her face, the Ironborn squinted at her like she’d stolen his favorite ship. “I can _see_ your thoughts.”

“Then you’re the most talented Ironborn in living memory.”

“Don’t patronize me…” Theon’s features were no longer neutral. Rather, he almost snarled at her. 

Lifting her chin, she stood at her full height and swallowed. “What thoughts, exactly?” Sansa retorted. “Arya’s the one with the crude mind, Theon. Like she always says, that’s _not_ me...”

Theon stepped closer to her, looking every bit as dangerous as any other Ironborn man. His whole body shook as he gulped, trying to stomp away the sadness brewing in his stormy gaze. Lady Stark shook her head as she slowly raised her hand to touch his shoulder. This was insecurity. Lashing out was something he’d used to do when his pride had taken any hits growing up. It was something she’d seen in him, but she didn’t want to share it with strangers. Checking over her shoulder, the lady spotted a nearby spot just out of earshot from where they currently waited. Reaching for his hand, Sansa pulled him until he stopped them.

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be…” Cupping his face in her hand, Lady Sansa brought him forward, pressing a kiss on his forehead before withdrawing him to provide him enough space to recuperate. “I will never understand what you’ve gone through, Theon. You know I would never mock you. Ever. Especially about that…”

“I know, it’s just…”

“What?”

Footsteps sounded off to their side. They looked, seeing a woman picking her nails with a small dagger strutting straight toward them. Theon put himself between Sansa and the woman, arm stretched out; however, he made no move to unsheathe his sword. Her clothes weren’t of the North.

“Yara…”

“He’s attracted to her, Lady Stark,” Yara shouted, loud enough for the whole yard to hear if they were listening. She stopped walking when Theon walked him and Sansa back toward the group. The lady reached for his shoulder, but he slipped out of her grasp, readying himself in case his sister decided to lash out. When he’d moved them far enough away, she resumed her pace, her confidence out for display for everyone to see just in her swagger alone. Yara didn’t stop until they were back with the group by the main castle entrance.

“If he still had a cock, he’d try to bend her over and fuck her…” Yara said, not looking away from her brother. “Wouldn’t you, Theon Greyjoy?”

Sansa’s gaze flickered between the siblings, who only stared each other down in silence. Until she sheathed her knife and laughed. In a flash, Theon softly chuckled, saying his sister’s name again as they shared a hug. After a while, Yara’s eyes opened, immediately anchoring on Lady Stark. “She’s prettier than the Dragon Queen, brother.”

“Don’t, Yara…”

“Calm down, baby brother...let her speak for herself,” the unfamiliar woman moved around Theon until she stood almost toe-to-toe with the Lady. “I’ve never had a redhead, my lady,” she muttered, her eyes sinking until she stopped below her belly. Sansa stood completely still, not once leaving Yara’s drowning, starved stare. “I heard you married and murdered the monster that broke my brother...”

“I had help...”

The Ironborn queen smirked. “I think you ought to take more credit. From what I’ve heard, you sacrificed quite a lot in order to secure the victory of the Battle of the Bastards. The few still at Torrhen’s Square had nothing but praise for you, my lady,” the sea queen said, lowering a sudden glare at Tyrion. “Do you think it wise to take counsel from another queen’s Hand, my lady?”

“No wiser than allowing a potential enemy’s ally in my home…”

“Enemy, huh?” Yara looked over to Theon, shaking her head. “You’re really willing to die for this woman...with the same man who single-handedly fucked us and our people over at her side?”

When Lady Stark glanced at Theon, the Ironborn looked down at his shoes. Eyes welling as her brows twitched in sync with her chin, the lady swallowed, desperate to change the subject.

“Yara…”

When the sea queen grabbed Theon by his collar, she regarded him with disgust. Hauling him closer to her, she shook her head and regarded him like he was a stranger who’d just burned her entire fleet. “When we docked in Volantis, you looked like you do right now. I delayed my time with a whore with a perfect ass for you then, but right now, I can’t look at you without wanting to punch you. Stand up. Like a man, baby brother…”

Sansa’s breath caught as a single tear slipped past her control as she watched Theon suffer under his own sister’s words. But eventually, he stood up almost as tall as he had when they were alone. Slowly anchoring his gaze from his boots to Yara’s eyes, he hid the pain well, but the lady so clearly saw traces of it infecting his gaze. He no longer shook when he said, “I’m standing here today because of what Lady Stark did for me here once. Sansa brought me back...I was able to save you...after...because of her.”

Yara shoved him away from her. “That’s right. On our way to Dorne, you abandoned me with our uncle Euron,” she retorted, throwing her glare at Sansa. “He betrayed his own sister, my lady. You would willingly have this man, a traitor to House Stark and his own blood?” Off to the side, Theon started cowering again, and Yara shoved her fist into his stomach, shouting, “I told you to stand!”

Sansa flinched, catching her breath as she rushed over to the Ironborn, kneeling down by him as he struggled to stand. For a moment, she thought he would push her away. When he clutched her arm, his hand shook, and they held each other’s sad stare. Standing together, the lady helped him back to his feet, remaining by his side even when Yara narrowed her eyes at them, her features more vulnerable than she’d allowed them to be at the beginning of this conversation.

“You’re the only woman who will get on her knees for a man like him,” the sea queen said, backing up a couple of steps. While the lady’s face burned, Yara switched her attention to Tyrion. “Would you get on your knees for him, too?”

The queen’s back faced Sansa, who hid her gasp by holding her breath. Looking up to the sky, she waited a fraction of a pause for the hot tears stinging her eyes to ease. When her focus came back down, her attention anchored on the dwarf. His hands shook in tight fists, his dangerous glare convincing the lady he could beat this sea queen to the ground. Right at the surface of his gaze was all of the promises and devotion they’d exchanged that morning. Alone in his room. In his arms. Swallowing, Lady Stark knew she had to regain Yara’s attention.

“Lord Tyrion is a guest at Winterfell until he is able to rejoin his queen when she takes the iron throne. The Long Night rendered him unfit for travel, Your Grace…”

“That’s a shame...I would have preferred him dying. It was his near-sighted plan that splintered Daenerys’ forces in half fighting on different fronts. Had we just done things my way, the dragon queen’s ass would already warm the iron throne.”

“In a kingdom of ashes…” Tyrion retorted. 

Yara curled her lip, glaring back at the dwarf. “King’s Landing is only one part of the Seven Kingdoms. I say let them burn for the mess they’ve caused over the last few decades. No iron throne and all our problems end in a single day.”

“Starving peasants aren’t usually responsible for the crimes of their ruler…” Lady Stark replied. It was something Tyrion would have likely said. 

“Good men died because of your stupidity, Little Lannister. Who weeps for them?”

“Lord Arryn of the Vale is due to arrive at any moment, Your Grace. We will settle this matter later,” Sansa impatiently said, finally hearing several horses’ distant whinnies and stomps.

“You're either a fool for willingly helping the Hand of a foreign queen, one you’ve all but made your enemy...if what I’ve heard about you is actually false,” Yara said, dropping her stare to Sansa’s boots and slowly dragging them up her lithe, tall body with an arrogant smirk. Clearing her throat, the sea queen wiped her nose, adding, “Or you’re in love with a fool.”

Over by the gates, a horse entered the castle yard in Sansa’s periphery. The lady froze her features, unwilling to drop her guard for a moment with this sea queen. Regarding the woman with as much disdain she had only reserved for Littlefinger, Lady Stark swallowed back her frown, allowing her to relax her expression to befit her signature neutral glare everyone interpreted to be a pleasant stare. Yara could not reach her when she was trapped within the fortress in her mind. No one could. Lifting her chin, Sansa looked down her nose at the Ironborn woman.

“There are no fools here, Your Grace…”

Blinking, Yara furrowed her brows, sneaking a look over to her brother. When she found no answers with him, she scoffed, recalibrating her approach and rebuttal. “There isn’t? Tell me, what did Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the infamous and beautiful Dragon Queen do when he stood in front of you and saved your life? I’d say all he did was allow the conflict between you and the Mother of Dragons to take root with the distraction of the Army of the Dead out of the way. If you died, the North would be hers. By allowing you to live, he betrayed the queen he swore his loyalty and love to…” Yara said, a cocky grin brightening her features. “We first met in Meereen. Has he told you about that? It was mostly common knowledge about my brother and where he was. When the four of us met in the pyramid, he didn’t hesitate to judge my brother, rightfully so...He didn’t even think about you, nor did he inquire about you.”

Sansa stood still, the breath she quietly inhaled trapped in her chest until she managed to slow her erratic heart painfully thumping against her ribs. Her expression was impenetrable, though. Sighing, the lady replied, “Littlefinger stole me from the capital, Your Grace. When he discovered Lord Tyrion hadn’t consummated our marriage, he married me off to Ramsay. From the moment I left King’s Landing, I ceased being the Lord Hand’s responsibility.”

“That’s right...your marriage,” Yara repeated. She threw a glare over her shoulder, eyes gravitating to Tyrion, who looked like he was ready to murder the sea queen. His features were dark, dangerous. “Your sham marriage, you called it?” she continued, casting her attention back onto the lady. “While we waited for the queen in the war room at Dragonstone, Theon asked him about you. He called you his wife. And when my brother asked about your marriage...I believe it was something about if you’d ever been happy while in King’s Landing...the Lord Hand rather quickly dismissed the subject of you like he was ready to get on with the strategy for his beloved queen. I heard he sent you...or rather your brother a raven. Did he even mention you in it? You were the Lady of Winterfell.”

“And I am ready to get on with receiving my cousin. Besides, Jon was named king in the North.”

“But you—”

“Are wasting my time, Your Grace,” Sansa said as Lord Royce’s horse stopped close to her. He said something, but the lady ignored everyone except this sea queen. “Is that why you're here?”

Yara’s resolve fractured, and Sansa watched as her brows furrowed, creating lines on her forehead, and her mouth thinned. “I’m here because of Theon. I will not abandon him, Lady Sansa.”

“By beating him and insulting me and my guests?”

“I—”

Sansa rolled her eyes, turning her back to the woman. “No need to seize the last word, Your Grace. I'll assume it was something shocking...” The Lady of Winterfell joined Lord Royce, who’d already handed over his horse to someone. He stared over her shoulder behind them, but before he could ask her anything, the lady joined her hands behind her back, straightening her shoulders and standing at her full height. “Let’s deal with the problem you created first, Lord Royce…”

The main carriage stopped a few feet away from where Lady Stark and Lord Royce stood. When it stopped, a man immediately moved to lower the steps and opened the door. Rather quickly, Robin Arryn emerged, immediately gravitating toward Lady Sansa. Like he’d practiced the maneuver a thousand times on the journey to Winterfell, the Lord of the Eyrie strode toward her, a single flower in his left hand.

The boy she remembered looked nothing like the man that approached her. His hair was as dark as she recalled, almost the same shade as Ramsay’s. Her gut twitched when he got closer and closer. His hair was as floppy as it had been before she left the Eyrie, only now, it suited his more mature features. Namely the rather large nose he’d somehow grown into. Stopping when he reached an inappropriate closeness to her, he extended the vibrant red rose to her, and she swallowed, accepting it. How he’d managed to keep a rose from dying during his journey so far North almost impressed her. As she handled the delicate rose, a flash of Margaery Tyrell and her pretty gowns and kindness thawed away some of the icy walls within her chest. 

Robin cleared his throat, and Sansa did her best to hide her grimace. She’d almost forgotten about him standing so close to her. For once, Sansa had to look up to a man. How had he grown so much in a short while? Robin Arryn almost looked like a different person entirely. 

“I personally tended to this rose along my journey back to you, my lady. I wanted to show you that I intend to take care of you for the rest of our lives...”

It would soon die, even if she rushed to place it in water. The rose was another reminder that nothing lasted for too long. Looking back down at the rose, Sansa almost smiled. If nothing lasted, then her cousin would eventually leave Winterfell. Yara and Daenerys would eventually no longer be a problem. And Tyrion would eventually be her husband. The one thing in this world that _would_ endure was their love. Sansa had no space in her heart for doubt or fear. Not with him by her side.

Shaking her head, she gasped, sharply. Drat...she’d practically ignored him again. Clearing her throat, Sansa pacified her features and stared up at him. “It’s a beautiful rose, my lord.”

Robin frowned, snatching it from her in an instant. “You _hate_ it!” he shouted, glaring at Lord Royce before he sauntered into the castle. The lady turned, watching him scurry off, thankfully without the awkward whinging and flailing. Some things never changed...

Yohn grumbled a curse under his breath, doing well to hide it, so the lady could not hear. “That child never learns…” he muttered, rushing after his lord. “Excuse me, my lady.”

The assigned castle guards moved past the lady as they assumed their duties helping the Vale caravan get situated. Joining her hands in front of her, Sansa bit the inside of her cheek and regarded the group behind her, eyes warning them to not make any comment around Robin’s caravan. Focusing on Ser Brienne, the Lady of Winterfell cleared her throat and sighed. “Why don’t we head to the great hall while we wait for Lord Arryn to settle in?”

“Settle in…” Theon repeated, a soft, almost uncontained chuckle breaking up the two words as he spoke. He covered his mouth with a hand when the lady widened her eyes at him.

“Not. Another. Word,” Sansa whisper-warned, tipping her head toward the castle door.

“My lady, I’ll join you once I get Jaime back to his room…” Ser Brienne said, the clicks of the chain behind her jostling against the snow.

“No…”

Brienne’s features froze, stunned and fixed in between a hybrid state of confusion and shock. Parting her lips, the knight drew her head back and adjusted the chain in her palm. “Pardon?”

“I want to enjoy some wine in a room filled with my enemies. Let’s practice for when the dragon queen inevitably flies up here and burns us all away before I can actually start enjoying being Warden of the North…”

“But my lady…”

“He stays, Ser Brienne. You said it yourself...He must learn what it is my guards do. It would please me if you will continue to show him.”

The knight lowered her gaze, but she nodded. “Yes, my lady.”

* * *

**How are you, friend? I'd love to hear your thoughts about this chapter! The opening scene was supposed to be MUCH shorter, but the next few chapters may get a bit tense, so I wanted as much fluff as I could get in without being too much. LOL. Updates will likely be frequent for the next few chapters!**


	11. Come on, love, draw your swords

* * *

**Chapter 11**

_Winterfell_

Sansa

* * *

“Remind me of the rules?” Lady Stark said, hesitantly accepting the goblet filled to the brim with wine. Carefully setting it on the head table in the great hall by the snapping fire, Sansa kept her hand on the bottom of it, her fingernails scratching the stem absently while watching Tyrion at the end to her right.

“I make a statement about your past. If I’m right, you drink. And if I’m wrong, I drink,” the dwarf happily acquiesced her request. Narrowing his eyes, Tyrion scanned the rest of those sitting at the table, eventually settling on Ser Brienne. Jaime sat beside her, though there was a noticeable gap between the two knights. Theon and Yara were off elsewhere in the castle. Podrick rounded out their small group in the big hall. The squire still hadn’t said a word. He looked like his only intention was to enjoy the group’s company. The high walls echoed even the scuffs of their boots against the floor, the sounds of Lord Tyrion’s deep, menacing chuckle and Jaime’s delayed sigh bouncing all around Sansa. Tyrion pointed at the pale knight, saying, “And no lying. I can always tell if you’re lying…” 

“You believe me to be someone who would lie, Lord Tyrion?” Brienne said, her scoff almost as pronounced as her eye roll. Her black armor clanked against the wood of the table as she folded her arms on it.

“I’ve started the game…” Tyrion said ominously, lifting his brows for added effect. Never leaving Ser Brienne’s sour glare, the dwarf accused, “You’ve only lied to your father once in your whole life. Before you were ten years old!”

The knight drew her head back, suspicious. But she swallowed a good gulp before almost tossing the goblet back onto the wood. Tyrion celebrated by slamming his palm against the rough surface, a smile wider than she’d ever seen brightening the glimmer in his gaze.

“Me again…” he said.

Jaime leaned his elbow onto the table. Grasping his cup, he locked his undivided attention on Lady Stark. “You’ve never been drunk…”

“That’s  _ not _ how this game works...It’s still my turn!” Sansa glanced at Tyrion, who tapped his fingers against the table and grumbled a low curse under his breath. Rolling his eyes, he wiped his face and slid his warm hand over the back of hers, brushing his thumb at her wrist under her sleeve. “If I’m ever going to bend the rules of my game for anyone, let it be for the future queen in the North.”

Lady Stark moved her thumb out from under his hand, which was wide yet short compared to her long, slender fingers and delicate hand. Swallowing, the lady shyly teased the edge of his thumb with her gentle touch, making him pause and still. When he cleared his throat, adjusting in his seat, Sansa lifted her cup, drinking a modest sip and expectantly placing the goblet back onto the table, her posture poised and perfect befit of any proper lady compared to the others, slouching and relaxing where they sat.

“You’ll need to drink more than that…”

Tyrion tensed, glancing at his older brother. “Jaime…”

“The point of a  _ drinking _ game...is to get smashed, brother. Bend the rules all you like, but let’s at least honor the foundation of it.”

Looking down at her wine, Lady Sansa grasped the curve of the goblet’s bowl and leaned her head back slightly. Wiping at the corners of her mouth once she set it back down, the lady checked around the table. “Who’s turn is it?”

“Mine,” the Lannister brothers declared in unison, glaring at each other until Jaime rubbed his face. 

Lady Stark gazed between each of them, hiding her growing smile by sipping her wine. Wiping the corners of her mouth, she caught the red drop falling down to her jaw with her thumb, which she quickly licked and sealed her lips around so as not to allow the substance to ruin her black high collar. Stealing her hand from Tyrion’s, Sansa set her goblet back to the table and rubbed her hand on her stomach, enjoying the feel of the stiff stitching of the bodice she’d made between the week or so leading up to Littlefinger’s execution and just before Daenerys arrived at the castle. The intricately woven detailing had been something she’d done only as an experiment, but among all of her gowns, this dress along with the leather bodice she’d had made for her to accompany her more plain gowns were her favorite pieces.

Northern fashion had to be more practical than the flowing skirts of the south, but the lady reveled in the challenge of her tireless pursuit of making the most impressive armada of a lady’s wardrobe. Stitching had always taken her mind off of things, but along the Essence of Nightshade, it had also been an escape for the tormented lady. If her body could no longer be beautiful, then perhaps she could have a beautiful collection of gowns made from pieces of her mother’s few remaining gowns tucked away in storage and two of her father’s cloaks. A soft, weak chuckle tickled her throat, and she put her hand back onto the table. Tyrion looked at her expectantly, like he’d already asked her another question. Swallowing, the lady lowered her gaze to her cup, easing her hair behind her ear. Would he think her simple for holding onto scraps of her vanity?

“I’m sorry, my lord. Can you repeat the question?”

A gentle smile relaxed Tyrion’s features. Claiming her hand in his again, the dwarf folded his fingers along the space between her thumb and up her index finger, his nails lightly scratching the inside of her palm until the tension in her body calmed. “Lady Sansa,” he muttered, spending special attention to draw out each syllable in her name like he knew that it would make her belly dance until it felt hollow. “You make all of your own gowns.”

Distracted, the lady swallowed an unladylike amount of the stale wine, pausing once the cup was back on the table. “Wait, that’s wrong! I do not make  _ all _ of them myself…”

“Too late, my lady. You’ve already drunk,” he answered gravely, pulling his hand away so he could rub his two together as he deviously plotted his next question, never once looking away from her. Thumbing his bottom lip at least ten times, Tyrion dropped his gaze down over her, slowly dragging his hungry gaze over her rather small breasts and up to her lips. “Some of the gowns you made with your mother’s.”

Narrowing her eyes, Sansa frowned, causing him to tense in his rolling chair. He looked at her like he’d done something wrong, only he hadn’t a clue what it had been. She drank another gulp of wine, this time choosing to hold the cup by her chest. “Tyrion, you’re either dancing around me or you’re plotting against me, asking me rather obvious questions.”

“Obvious, my lady?”

Jaime checked between the two of them, sighing again and saying, “It’s true, though, Lady Stark. We  _ are _ plotting against you. You’re going to be drunk before too long.”

“Ser Jaime, she is the Lady of Winterfell, the future queen in the North!” Brienne hissed.

Waving his handless arm around in the air, the fallen knight rolled his eyes. “...the Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons. Titles mean nothing, Brienne. Consider this a rite of passage for her. Let the miserable girl have some fun for once.”

Choosing to ignore his brother, the lady shook her head. “Stop asking me about superficial things. Ask me something you’ve wanted to know but have kept it to yourself.”

Tyrion spared a glance over to Brienne and Jaime, clearing his throat and returning his undivided attention to Sansa. “All right, my lady. During our whole marriage, you never wanted me in your bed.”

“Wrong,” Sansa retorted, her brows pinching in challenge. He owed her a drink.

“Wait, what?”

“My turn?” she asked, parting her mouth to ask her question to the dwarf.

Tyrion downed his whole cup. But he lowered it back to his lap. Wide, green eyes watched the lady, desperate yet distant. He almost didn’t believe her. The longer they stared at each other, Sansa’s composure began to falter, unsure if it was her he doubted or if this stemmed from a lifetime of his tragic insecurities. 

“When?” 

The single word that weakly spilled from his lips almost made him look smaller than he already was. Leaning his head back against his chair, his chest heaved as he almost choked on a stuttering breath. His hand shook in her grasp until she tightened it, readjusting their fingers until they interlocked.

Lifting her chin, she swallowed back the lump forming high in her throat. The warm tears brimming her glassy eyes almost stung when she’d forgotten to blink for a little while. Biting her lip, Sansa exhaled, chugging the last of her own goblet. Setting her cup onto the table, the lady gracefully wiped at her mouth again. All without once leaving his agonizing, starving gaze.

“Joffrey’s wedding...when I handed you the goblet he’d kicked over. It was only a fraction of a second, but the tips of our fingers touched. On the day of our wedding, you told me you knew how I felt, which I doubted. I was fourteen then, too young and simple for all the things you challenged about the world I knew. But right before he swallowed the wine, you looked at me like how I had felt since my father was taken prisoner,” Sansa said, lips twitching to the side as her brows dipped down. Shaking her head, the lady anchored her stare on their joined hands, rubbing his thumb with hers absently. “Do you recall what we...discussed this morning, my lord?”

“Yes,” he instantly supplied. 

“Well, that brief, meaningless, and simple touch reminded me of Ser Ostar and Lady Ceria and all the mischief they caused a girl of twelve and thirteen. Only I saw us, not them.”

Before Tyrion could respond or react, a door opened, and Sansa turned, seeing Maester Wolkan. Standing, she smoothed her skirt and met him by the fireplace behind the head table. Taking a moment to read the worry poisoning his kind expression, the maester reached for her arm, swallowing as he looked down at a thick, bundled raven scroll. Sealed with a Lannister’s lion sigil. 

The lady’s eyes widened as her breath involuntarily caught. Fingers jittery, Sansa held out her hand and accepted the raven from the old man. “Find Theon and Lord Varys,” she instructed, her voice void of almost any emotion.

“Yes, my lady,” Wolkan said bowing.

“There’s no need, my lady,” the Spider called out from behind the maester. Theon emerged in the large room shortly after.

Narrowing her eyes, Sansa straightened her spine and raised her chin as she walked back over to the table, rejoining the others as Jaime and Tyrion both froze upon inspecting the seal of the thick scroll sealed with their sigil. “Ser Brienne, take Jaime back to his quarters.”

“I’m staying.”

Breaking the wax seal, the lady ignored the rest of them. Unrolling the scroll, the lady also pulled down the parchment from the top, unfolding it until a smaller, stiff, and older letter tumbled onto the table. Setting it aside for now, Sansa scanned the scroll. 

“Little Dove, you refused my invitation to King’s Landing. Jaime is likely dead already. If he is not, he is, at the very least, dead to me. And as for Tyrion…I have big plans for that murdering, drunken whoremonger. We were sisters when you helped kill my son, your king. Seeing that House Lannister has been ripped to shreds, you leave me with little choice. You’ve deprived your rightful queen of adorning my sharpest spike with your traitorous head for years. 

You have nowhere left to run, so meet me at White Harbor. Since Tyrion preferred the company of whores to your…” Sansa said, clearing her throat. She’d read her dead husband’s letter when Jon would not finish it. Without further delay, the lady deadpanned, sealing every emotion behind the impenetrable walls around her mind, continuing. “...cunt, I come with a gift, come and see…” 

Tears stung her eyes, and those three words sounded like Ramsay’s voice in her head. Breathing through her nose, Lady Stark trembled, breaking her inhale until it splintered into the next. Each new one came faster and faster as her eyes betrayed her control, allowing the glassy moisture pooling in her pale blue gaze fall. At the middle of her back, her lungs started to pinch until breathing became almost impossible.

How could Cersei know about those three words? Perhaps it was a coincidence, but Lady Sansa knew something foul resided in the letter that had tumbled out of Cersei’s. When Tyrion moved his hand out to her, she scooted just out of his reach. The lady’s tears dropped onto the parchment she gripped, the edges crunching in her jittery palms. 

“I hope you enjoy Mountains, dear sister. He so looks forward to ripping you apart where Tyrion never wanted you and where I’m sure Ramsay sent his hounds when he was bored of your charming scraps. Come and see...Whore of Winterfell, I will keep the Imp alive long enough for him to see the Mountain rip off your legs and arms, one-by-one. Come and see...He will watch as the Mountain fucks your corpse until your pretty body is as unrecognizable as Robb Stark’s was, come and see. And when he is done with you, he’ll toss a silver on your mangled body. Next, will be your first husband. There’s nothing more in this world he loves more than his life. He killed our father, so he could keep his head. And he did so little when it came to saving Tysha from my father’s guards, who each raped her as he did nothing but watch. Like his first wife, I’ll make him fuck you dry last. Come and see. When he’s done with you, he will toss a gold piece on you. Lannisters are worth more, come and see.”

Throwing the letter down onto the table, Lady Stark sniffled, struggling to breathe. Yanking the still folded parchment open, Sansa paused as she studied the penmanship of the monster who’d nearly broken her. She wasn’t strong. All of her guards and walls were still too low, too feeble. Choking on her breath again, she laid the old raven scroll flat against the table, hating how much her entire body shook.

Ser Brienne touched the lady, who panicked at the unexpected contact. “Lady Stark, no one here will hurt you. Cersei will never hurt you again,” she vowed, her eyes glassy. Podrick pulled the knight back, providing Sansa enough room to catch her breath. 

Clutching her hands at her chest, Sansa looked up at the high ceiling. Did they think her afraid of Cersei? Perhaps they ought to, seeing how she couldn’t stop the aftershocks and possible memories tangling with her fear and wild imagination ripped through her. The lady couldn’t even speak to correct the knight of exactly whose hands and touch itching all over her body. Crossing her arms over her chest, the lady stumbled to her feet and sobbed as she almost tripped over her own ankles walking backward. Her back hit the wall. 

Trembling, Sansa closed her eyes, the image of her dead husband forming with perfect clarity. That grin that made her skin crawl. Those eyes she’d thought would be the last thing she’d ever see. The voice that was almost powerful enough to skin her bones clean. Legs going numb and head light, the lady slid down against the wall, succumbing to the madness without the hope of saving herself from it. She clutched her hand, her perfectly manicured fingernails sinking deeper and deeper into her scalp the longer she rode the waves of this hell. Bending her legs, Lady Sansa cradled her face in her knees.

Voices argued from somewhere close. The longer she was a prisoner in her own mind, the further it ripped her away from reality. The heat from the great hall’s hearth fused with the lash of another memory in the blurry hellscape holding hostage. The ugly burn marks up along the outside of her thigh burned all over again. This place stole her ability to breathe. 

“Sansa…” Tyrion’s muffled, the sound echoing from somewhere close by. He whispered her name a few more times, each time the deep timbre of his voice slowly clearing through the murky haze distorting all around her. She didn’t pry her face from the safety of her legs, and he didn’t try to touch her.

“I’m here, Sansa.”

Lady Stark relaxed her hands, pulling them from her hair in fists. Though she continued shaking, Sansa was at least able to breathe the longer his voice soothed away the flurry of panic wrestling in her chest. Swallowing, the lady leaned back against the cold, hard wall, her eyes still shut tight as she focused on breathing in and out a few times, slowly and deeply. No one had ever seen her meltdowns, except for Maester Wolkan, the only person who knew her deepest personal secret. Opening her eyes, she anchored her gaze on Tyrion, who stood with his hand against the wall next to her head for support, like he was the source of all gravity.

Groaning and holding his hand to his chest, Tyrion fell against the wall beside her, still not willing to touch the lady. When he fell to his knees, the dwarf gulped, parting his mouth without saying anything. The hand gripping his chest extended between them, revealing a small rolled scroll. 

Stamped on the outside of the paper was a black mockingbird. Searching her eyes as she grabbed the scroll from him, Tyrion hesitantly lifted his palm closer and closer to her pale cheek, waiting for her to inch away from him. The words from Cersei’s letter whispered in her mind, but Sansa knew he would never hurt her. He’d never let anything happen to her. The lady knew it in her bones. Even when she was his family’s prisoner, he’d protected her as best as he could. When the edges of his fingertips brushed her skin, his hand jerked back like she’d shocked him. Eventually, his touch settled on her.

“Cersei had  _ his _ letter…” Moving her fidgety fingertips to his bottom lip, Sansa shook her head, choking on another breath. The letter didn’t have anything that alluded to what he’d done to Lady Stark; however, the fact that Cersei knew something so private about her made bile warm her throat. Somehow she managed to say, “Petyr stole it and sent it south, so she could…Do you think she is responsible for the attack?”

Jaime’s chains rattled against the stone floor as he shifted toward them. “It’s likely. Qyburn, her Hand, has a pretty strong grasp on Lord Varys’ little birds in King’s Landing. Since he vanished, she’s established a rather fortified spy network throughout each of the Seven Kingdoms…”

“I can’t read it…” Sansa whispered, giving Tyrion the small scroll. 

The dwarf kissed her forehead before pulling away from her to open the unsealed scroll. Clearing his throat, Tyrion offered her a nervous, hopeful smile. “Cersei, if you’re reading this letter, then I’ve been murdered by Sansa Stark, the pretender in the North masquerading with her bastard brother as the Lady of Winterfell. Since I’m no longer your problem, you can only gain by heeding my advice. Arya Stark is here, a trained assassin they may utilize one day against you. Consider this warning penance for failing to locate the Stark girl all those years ago. 

“The both of us have a powerful friend in the North who has our mutual interests well-protected…I doubt this is the scroll you will receive. But if, however, the woman I love more than anyone manages to kill me, then bring the dragonfire to White Harbor and burn the world before Daenerys Stormborn gets the chance. People like us may die, but we will die in a way they will never write out of history. Remind the world of your wrath, and you shall never truly die. Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale.”

“She’s going to obliterate White Harbor…” Ser Brienne quietly mused.

“Let her take it,” Sansa answered, distracted by the words of a traitor who haunted her from the grave. 

“My lady?” Brienne stood as Lady Stark struggled to back on her own two feet.

“The city is almost abandoned because of the Long Night. While Jon was at Dragonstone, I ordered the Northern lords to send their food stores, most of their resources, and livestock here in case they had to abandon their lands quickly. Winterfell survived White Walkers. It’s still the safest place for my people. Cersei can’t maneuver her hired Golden Fleet through my lands. If she wants to burn the world, we’ll force her to march through the winter.”

“We’re talking about letting her destroy the North’s only means of trade, my lady…”

“Ports and homes can be rebuilt. Lives, however, are more scarce and precious in the North than ever before. I know nothing of war, but I’ve watched and learned from others over the years. Before Ramsay killed him, Lord Bolton planned to hole up here at Winterfell, rather than meet Stannis on the battlefield. This castle holds the greatest defensive advantage we have.” 

Podrick got up, sharing a concerned look with Ser Brienne before clearing his throat. “My lady, is losing White Harbor worth the risk? Cersei could still reach the castle. If she has Wildfire, then perhaps we should draw her away from here...take the battle to White Harbor.”

“I’d risk quite a lot to get what I want, Pod. If Jon were here, he’d orchestrate an elaborate plan that could work if  _ nothing _ goes wrong. I think we all have learned that war is never so certain. Things happen, and people outwit others even before they reach the battlefield. But  _ I’m _ the Warden of the North. And I know Cersei enough. She wants us to split our forces exactly as Daenerys allowed, but we’re not going to do what she wants us to do. We’ll send a small portion of our armies to White Harbor and Castle Cerwyn. Both are in the most immediate threat should she attack. We’ll collect whatever we can salvage and draw her here. Between the Northern army, men from the Riverlands, and the army from the Vale, we may stand a chance.”

“How will the Northern lords take this news?” Tyrion asked, hand on his chest as he slowly walked back to the chair. Jaime helped him settle. “I can’t imagine they'll be fond of the idea of abandoning their homeland and allowing it to be raised to the ground.”

“The Northern lords are busy trying to romance castles from me. Several great Northern Houses went extinct because of the Long Night. All of them look to Lord Manderly, who is loyal to House Stark. I will meet with him privately to make him aware of what’s happening. He’s helped keep the rest of the Northern lords under control. We’ll do whatever we can to restore the city once the ashes settle.”

“My lady?” Lord Varys said.

Sansa sighed, swallowing back the lingering effects of her outburst. Narrowing her gaze, the lady walked to the head table, gently tracing the edges of Cersei’s letter. “What is it, Lord Varys?”

“I’ve just received word from the Twins. Daenerys, Jorah, and Jon fly for Winterfell as we speak.”

“What?”

The Spider untangled his hands and shook his head. “I wish I knew why. My little birds whispered that they reached the Twins with her army two days ago; however, something happened that made them head here. According to the whispers, my lady, it’s just the three of them. Her army still heads for King’s Landing…”

“Plus two full-grown dragons…”

“Lady Sansa, if Daenerys meant to come here to destroy the castle, why would she bother bringing Jon?” Tyrion argued, setting his hand on hers.

There was nothing she could say on the matter. Sansa still didn’t know Daenerys as she ought to. She’d been so focused on making it known that the North would always remain an independent kingdom that she’d forgotten about what Littlefinger would have done when he’d met the dragon queen. He would have ensnared her trust in any way he could, establishing a token of good faith to trap her in his pit of chaos. Sighing, the lady’s eyes welled. 

“There’s another traitor in the North…”

“Perhaps it’s just a ruse.”

“No,” Sansa replied, her jaw trembling the longer she dwelled on thinking about the slimy man who’d taught her everything she knew about playing the great game she wanted nothing to do with. “He would take risks, but never with his life. Not unless he’d convinced himself he was safer risking it.”

Tyrion straightened in his chair, looking at her like he knew she knew who it was. Which she had a strong inkling. But right now was not the time to confront it. Sansa couldn’t keep breaking down. Repeated nights without sleep had weakened her resolve, and now that the dragon queen flew for Winterfell, she needed to pay close attention to who was watching her and Tyrion.

“Why would Cersei abandon King’s Landing?”

“My sister would do anything to rip the world apart now that she has nothing save one thing left,” Jaime muttered, his hands shaking until he balled them into tight fists. Clearing his throat, the southern knight narrowed his eyes as he searched Cersei’s letter like it had a hidden lexicon that only he could translate. “If she believes she’s dead at the end of this war regardless of the outcome, she’d stop at nothing to watch the world burn.”

Tyrion froze, his hand dropping from Sansa’s. “We have to evacuate King’s Landing.”

Jaime straightened, sucking in the air as he rose to his full height. “You don’t think she would — ”

“She’s already blown up the Sept of Baelor! Why stop there?”

“Is there even enough Wildfire to destroy the entire capital?” Lady Stark asked.

Tyrion deflated in his rolling chair, choosing to stare at anything or anyone else than to meet Sansa’s eyes. Covering his face in his hands, the dwarf exhaled in his hands and groaned a string of quiet curses. “Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Before the Battle of the Blackwater, we had 7,800 barrels of it...more than enough to lay the city low. I...I had Hallyne the Pyromancer make even more for the battle. Who knows how much she’s commissioned since…”

“She purposely waited for Daenerys to leave Winterfell, so we couldn’t properly coordinate a plan for each problem Littlefinger and she caused,” Sansa mused, playing with the steel ring at her chest. She turned her back to them, facing the fire. With each step, her chain clanked until she paused, biting her lip. “My sister is heading for the capital…” she gasped, clutching her stomach as the flames snapped.

“S-Sansa…”

“There’s no way to tell her what she’s going to walk into.”

Tears welled in her gaze. The more times Tyrion said her name, the harder it was to ignore him. When she closed her eyes, they fell down her cheek. “Lord Varys, when will they arrive?”

“...It’s hard to say, my lady. They could be here within a few hours, but I’m guessing by nightfall is also viable.”

“Either way, they’ll be here by today.”

“Yes, Lady Stark…”

“Maester Wolkan? Send ravens to both the Twins and to Riverrun to my uncle. Summon him here wherever he is, but withhold most of this information. We can’t risk Cersei figuring out how much we know or suspect. The less she knows about us, the better…”

Sansa started to make for the exit, but Ser Brienne caught up to her. “Lady Stark, where are you going?”

“To the godswood, to think.”

“I insist you let me escort you.”

“I should like the company, Ser Brienne. Though I’d prefer it if there weren’t any Lannisters present. I’ll wait by the door for you to take Jaime back to his room.” Looking over her shoulder to Podrick, who straightened, Sansa lifted her chin, saying, “Pod, please gather the scrolls for me. When I leave, you may escort Lord Tyrion back to his room. Wait for further instruction before letting him out.”

“Sansa?” Tyrion murmured, his voice clipped, weak, and heartbreaking. So small, scared. “Please don’t do this...” he said a little louder. In her periphery, the wisps of fur on the plain black cloak she’d made for him with white, silver, and dark grey pelts at the shoulders. Made up of materials pilfered from her father’s old cloaks, it didn’t fit him as she’d hoped, but he’d seemed to wear it with so much pride outside when they greeted Robin.

_ Robin… _

The man who meant to propose marriage, on top of everything else, was here, too. The squire gathered the letters, rushing toward her until she clasped them safely in her hands. Offering him a sad smile, she muttered her thanks and took her leave. All while not looking and answering Tyrion. 

There was simply too much going on all at once. 

A traitor in the North, one she already suspected. Cersei burning the world down. The possibility that she’d lose Arya, all because Sansa had no way of contacting her that wouldn’t put their plans in danger. The rational thing to do was to bleed her heart dry of all possible distractions until she was in a better state of mind. Otherwise, she’d make a mistake somewhere along the way. And that mistake could very well get her or Tyrion killed.

* * *

**Thank you SO much for your kind words for the last chapter! I'm so happy we're all happy. :) I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter! So many twists I've been holding onto...**


	12. Keep Me On Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize it's been well over a month since my last update. The US election REALLY took me out of a good headspace to tackle this emotional, traumatic chapter. I hope you're still with me, because we're just getting started!

* * *

**Chapter 12**

_Winterfell_

Sansa

* * *

Gentle, white snow wisped around occasionally when the breeze blew around Sansa, who sat at the base of the Weirwood tree. The lady’s slim leather gloves couldn’t stop the winter’s chill from prickling against her skin. In her hands were the scrolls. For the past hour and a half, she’d poured her undivided attention into them. Brows scrunched and mouth squished to the side, Lady Stark searched Littlefinger’s familiar penmanship once more, trying to decode the language she feared she’d forgotten. Sighing, the lady swallowed, rubbing her arms to fight the cold for a little longer. Everything on her face stung, and it was getting harder to blink without her eyes itching.

“My lady, perhaps we should go back inside.”

Sansa glanced up at the knight who’d not sat down for the whole duration of time the lady forced her to be out here with her. Mostly in silence. “I can’t go back until I find the answers…” she said, her flat voice scratchy in this weather.

“Perhaps I could help?”

“How?”

Ser Brienne leaned against the tree with a loud sigh. “If you would like a momentary distraction, I’d like to speak about what Jaime said today while we waited to receive Lord Arryn. It was entirely inappropriate, so I wanted to personally apologize to you.”

Rolling the scrolls, Lady Stark tucked them into the hidden pocket on the inside of her cloak. “Brienne, how are you?”

“My lady…”

“Brienne, I don’t have anyone here I can talk to silly things about, so you’ll have to indulge me if you’re set on properly distracting me. It’s not like I have much in the way of friends these days. So, I propose that, when we’re alone, we speak about anything we feel we cannot mention to others.”

The burly woman scrubbed her face of some falling snowflakes. Succumbing to a wary silence that made Sansa’s stomach clench, the knight sighed as she scrunched her brows together. Scratching the back of her neck, the knight said, “I thought I knew Ser Jaime. Since he arrived here at the castle, he’s looked at me in...ways no other man save, perhaps, Tormund has.” Brienne grimaced and shifted, looking like she’d been forced to stand where fresh dung had been laid.

“Ways?” Sansa smirked, biting her lip to keep off a chuckle. “What kind of ways does Ser Jaime look at you?”

“Confusing ways, my lady.” The black metal of her armor clanked as she struggled to kneel before the Lady of Winterfell. Pushing her mouth to one side, Brienne shook her head again.

The lady scanned the woods that surrounded them, hearing distant clanking and commotion from the direction of the castle. Eventually, Sansa Stark would forget what King’s Landing smelled like, looked like. The faces of her enemies would disappear. One day. She hoped that, soon, all she knew was Winterfell again, the home she was desperate to remember.

“Do you remember a time that wasn’t as complicated as now?”

“I’d like to, my lady.”

“I fell in love with a man from a House my parents despised and died because of,” Lady Stark murmured, shivering as she adjusted her cloak again. Teeth chattering, Sansa glanced up at Brienne. “You love Jaime.”

As the lady’s whisper tumbled from her lips, Ser Brienne appeared as though she’d been punched in the gut. “...I do,” she eventually replied, eyes sinking to Sansa’s boots.

“One day soon, Brienne, I’ll be queen. I’ll need a commander of my Queensguard,” Sansa said, rubbing her hands together. The knight straightened, her posture as stiff as the frozen pond at the lady’s feet. “I’ll name you and knight Podrick. I want you both by my side always.”

“My lady, I want you to know that I intend to honor the vows. Jaime won’t distract me from defending you till my last breath. Should he escape Winterfell and return to Cersei, I would cut him down like any other enemy. I will never leave you unless you instruct me otherwise. I am your sworn knight. Now and always.”

Sansa smiled, this one larger than the others had managed to pry from her as of late. “I don’t know if I will ever trust or like Jaime Lannister, but I trust you with my life. I know you’d give everything up to keep your oaths untangled, Brienne. But I want you to know that I’m going to ensure it doesn’t come to all that.”

“My lady?”

“You’ve done so much for me and House Stark since you rescued me in the forest from Ramsey’s men. You see a good in a man everyone save perhaps his brother unquestioningly overlooks. At the very least, I’d like to see you happy, and I see Jaime does that. Something drove him here away from her, something foul. However, I think something also inspired some good in him to have the courage to betray Cersei to help us fight. It was you, Brienne.”

“Lady Stark, I...I will not force a man who would not wish to be with me to stay.”

“No one will force him to stay. But I need him to. He’ll be useful once Daenerys shows up. You’ll have to try and help me encourage him to remain here in Winterfell.”

The knight swallowed, dropping her eyes to the blinding snow. “What are you planning?”

“I can’t tell you that. Not yet, at least. You wouldn’t like some of the things I may have to do before this is all over.”

“But Jaime…”

“So long as he does not betray my house, I consider him a conditional ally, Brienne. Besides, Tyrion wouldn’t be happy with me handing the Kingslayer over to the daughter of said king. I care a great deal of that man’s happiness,” Sansa said, softly chuckling. 

The knight glanced back up at the lady with a slight grin, marred by the gravity of her somber expression. She held something back from Sansa. “My lady, if it please, I must ask that you not to call Jaime Kingslayer if he is to remain our ally. That he may be, I know him to be an honorable man. Whatever he did to earn that title is more than justified. Of that, I can assure you.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s an interesting story.”

“I don’t feel it would be appropriate for me to divulge that which he has confided in me, my lady.”

“Oh, I don’t want to know it. At least not yet. I’m not ready to sympathize with him. Perhaps one day when Cersei is dead.”

The knight looked relieved, bowing her head and grinning slightly as she cleared her throat. This brutish woman would blend into the snow if it weren’t for her black armor. Their breath visible from the bitter Northern cold lingered between them until her knight weakly muttered her thanks.

“Brienne?”

“Yes, my lady?”

“I have to ask you for another favor. Or rather, a promise. It’s probably the most important thing I’ll ever ask of you.”

“What is it?”

“So long as you serve me, I require you to always speak your mind when something I do disturbs you. Everyone pretends I’m some helpless girl, but I know that I am not. Arya told me that we’re all just like Bran. Me, her, and Jon. I am something else. Ramsey showed me the true depths of cruelty, but he also exposed a tender hunger for watching the people I hate to die before my eyes. I watched his hounds rip enough of his body to shreds. I...I loved seeing it, and I didn’t hate that I did. For only a moment, my dying husband and I had something in common, something that, at that point, had already nested deep within my heart. 

“Whether it came from the Lannisters or Petyr, I suppose it doesn’t quite matter anymore. He just happened to be the one to coax it out from under the girl still desperately clinging onto the lady father and mother would want me to be. Ramsey and I were finally brought together by bloody, shredded rags, fabric that forever stitched into the seams of my soul. Ladies shouldn’t enjoy such things. So I looked away because I knew I should. But I didn’t _want_ to. If I listen close enough and close my eyes, I can still hear his screams and recall the stale smell of his blood whenever I must walk by the kennels.”

The breeze whistled over her ears as Brienne’s eyes widened. Mouth hanging, the knight sighed, her bulky armor hiding what almost appeared to be a shiver sputtering to life up and down her body. Swallowing, the pale knight balled her hands as her armor clanked in response to her visibly shaking body. “Sansa, I can’t make your decisions for you. You’re set to be the queen soon. I’ve heard you say more than once now that you trust me with your life. To fight for House Stark and for you is my life’s honor. I know you would never ask of me anything that would dishonor me or the vows I swore to you back in the forest. But if you permit me to, I want to add one thing,” Brienne said, stopping to wait for a reply. When Sansa nodded her head once, she continued. “I vow I shall always fight to remind you of the lady I so proudly serve if you should ever lose your way. And serve you I shall until my dying day.”

“What I think I’ll have to do to save my family and gain the North’s independence may hurt you, Brienne.” Sansa had to warn her, so she’d be prepared for what could come. Tears stung the lady’s eyes as they held each other’s gazes. 

Distant twigs snapped back down the path leading to the castle. Sansa’s focus sharpened. Instinctively, she stepped closer to Ser Brienne, relaxing only when she saw Lord Varys, his features more grave than usual. Perhaps the cold did not agree with him, but there were more lines on his forehead than she’d ever seen in the recent weeks. His usually impenetrable stare clearly expressed the frenzied and distressing thoughts working in his mind. Searching the man once over, Sansa stepped around Ser Brienne. 

“What is it?” she asked when he closed in.

“Normally I wouldn’t dare disturb you here, my lady,” Lord Varys said, bowing quickly and folding his hands in his sleeves. Mouth hanging for a brief second, the Spider continued as his right eye twitched ever so slightly. “But I’m afraid it concerns Lord Tyrion.”

Sansa’s breath caught as she picked up her skirts and walked toward him. The hitch of her breath twisted in her throat, shocking her gut with a quick jolt. Drawing her brows together, she swallowed and asked, “What about him?”

The Spider struggled with the words tangling in his thoughts. Narrowing his eyes, he sighed. “I’m afraid he’s rather drunk. Usually, it wouldn’t be a problem. He sat and drank his way across the Narrow Sea from within a confined box. However, Daenerys flies back North, so naturally, I thought it ought to be dealt with. And considering all the drama concerning his brother, I thought it best to approach you with the discrete nature of this particular matter.”

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

Sansa gripped her skirts as she rushed up the hall toward her chambers, stopping a few rooms from it at the wooden door that led to Tyrion’s new quarters. Podrick stood against the stone wall, staring at the thick wooden door with iron crossing until the echoes of the lady’s boots finally ripped him from his thoughts. Like molten lava had been poured down his breeches, the squire bolted upright, joining his hands in front of him in a span of a half-second.

“Lady Sansa,” he almost shouted, gulping as he met her gaze. 

Holding up her hand, Sansa offered him a gentle smirk, shaking her head. “Pod, we can all learn to relax every now and then. You’ve done well.”

“I didn’t realize there was so much wine in there, my lady. I should have checked before leaving him in there alone.”

“So much wine?” Lady Stark asked, brows knitted together as she raised her chin. Narrowing her eyes, she slid her gaze to the closed door with a slight shake of her head. “I only brought a half-filled flagon up this morning…” she said, shifting her attention back onto Podrick. “When you were his squire, did he so easily get drunk?”

“No my lady. He often consumed an entire flagon in a single sitting when he worked or took dinner in his room.”

From within the room, they both jumped when a loud crash banged against the wood floor. Rushing to open the door, Lady Sansa’s breath caught as she stared at a rolling flagon that knocked against the toe of her boot. Glancing up, the lady studied the dwarf struggling to stand, using the shortened desk to help stabilize his wayward efforts. One of his hands gripped the edge of the desk, which wobbled, and his other one clutched his chest as he yelped and shouted a string of foul curses. 

Only when Sansa cleared her throat did Tyrion fall back against the desk, one of his feet slipping on one of the loose blank pieces of parchments scattered across the nearby floor as he made a poor attempt to turn his body toward her. Swallowing, Lady Stark bit the inside of her cheek. She’d taken great effort in arranging for so much blank parchment for him. They’d not had a chance to discuss their purpose, but a good portion of the top part of the thick stack soaked up some of the spilled deep burgundy color lingering on the floor surrounding the pelt underneath the small desk.

The little man had somehow stripped himself of his thick, structured black striped tunic. The long sleeves of his black shirt flowed as freely as the torn fabric up and down the front of it. The more he stumbled to face her, a mild heat burned her cheeks. The bandages on his brutalized chest weren’t there. Just an endless expanse of his bare chest and stomach, slightly hidden from her view by the waistband of his black pants. Echoes of moments down in the crypts bubbled in her mind, tickling her thoughts until all she saw was him shove her as best he could when the wight found them. The lady once again tripped over her own feet from his unexpected force. 

Throat itching dry, Sansa clutched the steel ring near the base of her throat, swallowing as flashes of her watching the dwarf do his best to evade the wild wight slashing the sword all around him. The man’s back once again hit the stone of a large grave, her father’s grave. Lady Stark felt the adrenaline electrify her body again as she rushed to her feet, her dragonglass dagger swiping at the wight as it distracted itself with Tyrion. 

Neither of them was a fighter, so all of her feeble attempts were wasted as the unnatural wight struck Tyrion’s stomach as he continued to dodge each incoming attack as best as he could. In a rush, the wight looked at her all over again, and a hint of the same fractured scream burrowed deep within her chest as her hands began to shake in his warm quarters. The monster ignored the dwarf now, setting its undead sights on the lady, who stood like a frozen imbecile as it stalked her away from the man who shouted at it, gripping his side and stumbling toward Sansa. Leaning over, he gripped the dirt and threw it at the wight. 

The guttural howl of her name in his throat caught its undivided attention as it swung its sword at him again. A smaller target than the others in the crypt, Tyrion did his best to move, so he was even harder to strike. However, he only delayed the inevitable as it landed a few more shallow cuts in his chest and stomach. Never breaking his glare from the creature, he’d ordered her to run or hide. But she’d stupidly stood there, rooted to the ground in her place as she sobbed for him. When the wight whirled its blade at his face, Tyrion yelped, sinking back against the grave. Tears and blood blurred his skin, darkening his thick beard and hair.

Shivering, the lady gasped as she held onto her stomach, parting her lips as tears blurred the red room. A million words and promises forged in her heart and mind until they tangled on her tongue. So there she stood, gazing upon her savior in silence with tears in her eyes as the fresh memory slipped away. Some of the six lashes on his chest and stomach peeked through the ripped dark fabric. Taking a breath, Sansa finally found settled on something coherent to possibly tell him, but he fell back against the desk as he struggled to stay standing, causing it to jostle on the pelt rug.

“T-there s-she is,” Tyrion leered, his mouth twitchy and flat and his glare almost as hot as dragonfire. “My bel...” he said, hiccuping and covering his mouth as he looked like he would vomit. When he determined he was safe, he cleared his throat with a black grin. “My _beloved_ sham wife!”

Sansa drew her head back, mouth hanging as tears slipped down her cheeks. Stepping back once, she swallowed and shook her head. Looking over her shoulder, seeing Lord Varys and Ser Brienne a few feet away from her, the lady anchored her gaze on them. “Lord Varys, please ask the Northern lords to gather in the great hall and wait for me there. Pull aside Lord Manderly, so I may speak with him personally beforehand. Ser Brienne, please see that no one disturbs me while I handle our guest’s poor state,” she somehow managed to say without a single breath. 

Finally regarding Podrick, she muttered, “Pod, please go and find Maester Wolkan. Tell him I require the Essence of Nightshade for Lord Tyrion. Then go and check on Bronn. I want to know if he’s reconsidered his stance on the Lord Hand and Ser Jaime’s lives. If not, then let him ponder his stance on the matter for a few more days. But we could use a man with his skill in the fight that may come. You will find a heavy coin purse in my quarters. If he is willing to accept it as a small upfront payment and you trust that he is no danger to our Lannister allies, then release him so he can help us form a proper plan with the Northern lords a bit later. But be as vague as possible with the information you give him about what’s happening.”

“Yes, let’s set the man who wants to kill me free! That will certainly rid you of the inconvenience that is me…” the dwarf grumbled behind her, knocking into the desk once again. Something heavy and glass dropped onto the pelt, but the lady didn’t look back. Not yet. “I’m sure my father…” Tyrion said, falling back against the desk and shaping an imaginary contour of something Sansa could not comprehend with his hands in front of him. Shortly thereafter, he continued, grumbling, “...would have built a shrine in your name if I hadn’t _murdered_ him.”

“Yes, my lady,” Pod said, grimacing.

Without another breath, Lady Stark reached to close the door, leaning against it when all that remained in their small, private world was a drunken man, the former Hand of the foreign dragon queen, and a tortured woman, the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

“Here to brave a g-glance upon the grotesque, famous Imp, my lady?”

“Grotesque?” Sansa asked, her voice airy, weak, and curt. After everything they’d been through, shared together, and would certainly face in the months to come, _how_ could he doubt her?

Tyrion tossed his empty goblet onto the floor and slipped the black shirt from his body until the torn fabric bunched at his elbows, forcing her to see his contorted torso like it ought to equate to all of Ramsey’s torture in physical form. She hated that heat resonated at her pinkening cheeks. Especially when he acted so much like an ass. His wicked, hateful smirk made her chest itch. “Yes, Lady Stark. Grotesque generally means repulsively ugly. And now that you have a visual, you shall never forget its definition. You can add it to your decidedly _pristine_ nomenclature…”

“I know what it means, Tyrion. You’re clever enough to know what I meant,” Sansa retorted, eyes dropping on one of his injuries, which bled a little. “You’ve made a mess of these quarters. Why are you drunk? And why are your bandages off? The maester replaced the other ones before we went to receive Robin.”

Belching, Tyrion grimaced as he held onto his chest. Coughing lightly, he dropped his glare down to her boots and dragged it all the way up her mouth. Grabbing his discarded tunic near his feet, Tyrion tossed it over his shoulder. “I am as I’m meant to be...well, almost. I'm the god of tits and wine, after all! Fuck the rest of the world. I certainly have. It has made a fool of me for the last time. When I’m back in King’s Landing, I shall claim Littlefinger’s brothel as my own private pleasure palace and fuck the cunts of a thousand whores as I bathe in the sweetest Dornish wine until my cock weeps down their throats.” 

The dwarf’s glare punctured Sansa’s heart as the words each took their turn punching her in her gut. The way he regarded her was like how she would look down upon Littlefinger, a man who disgusted her, had he still breathed. A man who’d forced her to explore the hidden depths of the hatred of which she’d never thought herself to be capable. What had she done? Why was he drinking? Questions brewed more until the noise in her mind tore her away from reason. Control slipped from her hopeless grasp as easily as her breath normally passed through her chest.

“You’re leaving?” Sansa choked, her panic tangling with the whisper-like gasp that robbed her of her next breath.

The lady shook her head, her tears dried as a tidal wave of agony crashed over her and ripped her down to the bone. Chin trembling as her spine felt cold in her body, the lady’s stomach yanked down to her toes, slowly going numb. Pacing toward him a step, Lady Stark swallowed as her skin thinned until the cold made her shaky hands clutch her folded arms. Falling back against the door, Lady Stark trembled, her head jittering until her chin pointed away from him toward the bed. The air around her coiled her chest, the very breath caught in her throat sinking back down to her belly as she moved a hand to cup her mouth. A silent but violent sob twisted her lungs around in her chest as the room blurred.

Thoughts, fears, and memories stole her concentration. The safety of her guard and the figurative ice castle she’d raised around her heart was far away from where she was. A high-pitched ringing sang in her ears like a composition of horrors haunting her in her nightmares. It was all she heard, even muffling the sound of the fire snapping and shuffling of Tyrion’s feet. Not even the heat of her tears was enough to warm her body from the shock it imposed upon Sansa, its prisoner. Gripping her belly with her free hand, Lady Stark leaned her head against the door and closed her eyes as she stared at the ceiling, hoping the stones there would somehow conjure within her some strength. To breathe. To speak. It honestly didn’t matter. 

He wanted to go to King’s Landing?

Lowering her hand from her agape mouth, Sansa’s hand twitched until she reached behind her and sank her nails into the door, grinding her teeth together when the pain at her tender fingertips ricocheted up her arms and prickled up and down her leaden spine. Wincing, the lady finally managed to suffer a new breath, the chords of her voice shredding in her throat as an agonizing but quiet wail. Just like when Ramsey touched her, the pain exchanged for her next breath, an involuntary transaction that occurred whether or not she wanted to live through another second of this life or not. Thick tears beaded down over her temples into her hair as she angled her chin up, relaxing her fingers sinking into the door. Shaking her head, Sansa gripped the simple braids high on either side of her head. 

Sansa never needed anybody like this in her whole life. A song marred by a dangerous twist of cruelty and sorrow, life had always seemed just beyond her reach. He couldn’t go. Not now. But then the words poured over her mind like a shroud of sap encasing tree bark. The lady was trapped within this horrid storm. _I shall claim Littlefinger’s brothel as my own private pleasure palace and fuck the cunts of a thousand whores as I bathe in the sweetest Dornish wine until my cock weeps down their throats._ Not only did he want women who could pleasure and love him in all the ways she was incapable of, Tyrion wanted a _thousand_ of them. 

Was he saying it as only drunken nonsense like their wedding night? Or had she delivered herself to a hell on a ship she built? Sansa wanted nothing to do with this if this was what love did to her. Every doubt, fear, and insecurity she’d ever had slapped across her face, the sharp touch of Ser Meryn Trant’s hand striking her skin replayed a thousand times as she sobbed up at Joffrey with his crossbow readied for her heart. It had been years since she’d suffered an attack of this magnitude. The comfort and safety of keeping everyone outside of the shield cocooning her had spoiled her just like her mother had. 

Perhaps she’d always been this weak, stupid girl all along. Only and always a real pretender.

And all it took was six nights with little sleep, a few flashes of the past, and the mere idea of Tyrion leaving her alone in her castle of steel, stone, and ice buried in her heart. Winter fell away whenever he was near her. The memory of the long summer held vibrant traces of her mother’s gentle laughter and her father’s unyielding embrace. And the dwarf brought summer upon the uncharted territory each time he explored her. 

Sansa needed him. She needed him. _She. Needed. Only. Him._

Gasping for her next breath, Sansa shook, swallowing down a thousand daggers that collided with her belly with a force of a million lances plunging through her body. Composure be damned. If this man thought he would break her after she’d endured all the agony the world had stored across a thousand generations, then she would find a way to fight. For them. For her. Against him, if need be. The love that burned her throat. Sansa Stark would do it all over again if she had to, bury herself in stone until all that was left was a pretty face. 

The face of Ned and Catelyn Stark.

Tyrion’s warm hand clutched hers, which had fallen to her side without her noticing. Snatching her hand away from his dangerous touch, the lady inhaled sharply, glaring down at him. Control had become her way of measuring power over the last few years. That she could no longer maneuver her own body showed her all the weakness she’d pretended wasn’t still somewhere inside of her. The loud smack across the dwarf’s cheek snapped her out of the spell that drowned her. Even when she wanted to hate him, Tyrion saved her. From unknown echoes of her suffering _and_ herself.

“Don’t touch me!” she shouted, shaking her head as she stumbled away from him, tripping over her feet and landing safely on his bed. Gripping the linens she’d fallen asleep in his arms atop earlier, the lady glared at the dwarf and wiped away the tears that spilled from her ferocious eyes. 

Tyrion features worked, his mouth flattening and twitching as he suppressed a sob of his own. His brows sank as he fell back against the door where she’d been, staring at her as the flurry of a hundred emotions gave her whiplash. The dwarf clutched the ruined shirt over his heart like she’d stolen it when she’d rushed away from him. Moving his hand to cup the side of his head, he narrowed his eyes and swallowed back a desperate sob. His whole body shook.

“You left me first, Sansa.”

“What?” she retorted, gripping her stomach as it yanked in all directions. As she inhaled, her shoulders trembled, splintering the air in her throat. “Do you honestly think I could abandon you so easily?” Sansa asked, mouth hanging open as she gazed over at him. The lingering, deafening silence between them sufficed enough to answer her question. Was it _her_ he doubted? Or was this simply a deeply-rooted insecurity that had whispered dark thoughts into his mind? Either way, the lady’s chest squeezed until she no longer remembered how to breathe. 

Among the survivors left dwelling in the cold world that had replaced the bright and warm one after her father’s murder, they were among the few carrying the most trauma, agony, and uncertainty. At least in Sansa’s opinion. But most of their similarities stopped there. Sansa’s pain had mostly begun well after a decade into her life. Tyrion had been afflicted since birth, and he had two decades of life experience over her. There was no excuse for him to lash out at her, but the tension in her chest ebbed the longer she held his lost gaze, as understanding anchored her wayward thoughts.

Until now, they’d dwelled in an almost impenetrable bubble. Flashes of Shae popped into the back of her mind. Although circumstances outside of her control had taken her away from the capital all those years ago, Lady Stark wished she could have been there. To do what for her husband, she did not know. The lady had been all but a powerless girl then. But Sansa was with him now. Petyr Baelish had taught her most of what she knew about patience. Perhaps she could help him as much as he’d already helped her. Eventually. As their lives unfolded together.

“I’m already failing you…” the dwarf muttered, sighing and peeking up to meet her more grounded gaze as quickly as his eyes dropped back to his boots. Swallowing, Tyrion shook his head. “Your patience will eventually choke the life from your chest. And I’ll be responsible.”

“Tyrion, I’m not a whore. My love, loyalty, and patience are not things anyone could buy. And all of that is yours alone.”

The man’s brows furrowed as he inhaled, slow and loud until he clamped his mouth shut and trapped the air in his lungs. Glancing at her again, Tyrion flattened his mouth and folded his lips between his teeth. When a gentle smile tickled at the corner of her mouth, he softly chuckled, finally saying, “You don’t buy whores, Sansa. You only rent them…”

“I’m certain you're an expert on the matter…” she joked, the knot in her throat and stomach untangled the longer she held his attention. Biting her bottom lip, Sansa parted her mouth, opting not to speak until her thoughts were less of a mangled blur. Clearing her throat, the lady slid her hands down her thighs, stopping when they fidgeted closer toward her knees unconsciously. 

They’d never fought before. It certainly would not be the last time they did so; however, Sansa hadn’t expected they’d do so this soon. Then again, the letter from his sister had toppled down the glass tower they’d built to keep them away from the rest of the world. Back on the ground, Tyrion and Sansa had to handle the fallout amidst the rubble. The next fortress had to be built with steel and stone if they were both to survive to see the long life she saw with him. 

Tyrion still clung to the door, not budging from where he stood. His posture reminded her of a lowborn boy who’d found trouble, his features full of questions and shoulders sagging so far forward. Although now he settled his gaze in hers, the dwarf respected her earlier command, even though she saw his desperate need to touch her at the surface of his vulnerable features. Extending her hand toward him, Sansa waited for him to stumble his way back to her. Each of his steps was slow, the effects of the wine a little obvious even though he spoke as if he were impervious to its effects now. The man who approached her blended with the Hand who’d saved her from Joffrey’s cruelty. More than once, and long before they were wed. Sliding his fingertips against hers like a whisper, Tyrion swallowed the words lingering in his gaze, which twitched and narrowed in response to her jittery touch. 

Nothing in this world compared to him. The unparalleled gentleness burrowed in his eyes silenced the chaos that had previously jolted her heart toward the sky. Daenerys could have her dragons. There was a spectacular and fearsome magic this man imbued especially for her. With a single touch or occasionally just a look, most of her pain, fear, and echoes of memories rattling in her head fell away. It was a little tragic that the rest of the world would likely never see this tremendous power and ensnaring wisdom for themselves, but Lady Stark was happy to have Tyrion all to herself. He certainly had all of her. 

Even if he didn’t accept it yet.

It was like he’d introduced her to a completely new person within her, like she’d only needed an invitation to coax her out of some unknown corner of the world to join in on the gruesome madness amongst creatures of the dark. Between how she’d been as a girl and who she was now, Sansa had only been offered an abysmal amount of time to grow into the woman she was always meant to be. Perhaps if none of the horrors had happened, she’d already be married with some faceless lord’s children picking out fabric for her next gown. She’d be a brainless lady who ultimately lived a rather unsatisfying life, always ignorant of the fact that any life without Tyrion would be time tragically wasted.

There were days the lady forgot the deep, rich timbre of her father’s voice. The longer time separated her from the last few days of his life, she feared she’d also forget the hue of his eyes and the comfort of his smile. But she’d never forgotten some of his words. _When you're old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you...someone brave and gentle and strong._ There would be none of what she felt for _this_ man in _this_ moment had her father still lived. Tyrion was a Lannister, and her father had been rather cut and dry in terms of his perspective. It was likely he’d never have seen any honor in a man as enigmatic, dangerous, and passionate as this dwarf who’d turned out to be everything her father had wanted for her when she was too stupid to understand what Joffrey was.

Slipping his palm over hers, Sansa repositioned her hand so that they could fold their fingers between the spaces of their grasp. With her free hand, the lady reached for the cheek she’d struck moments before, wincing as she traced the intoxicating shape of his mouth with her thumb. Leaning in toward him, Lady Stark pressed her lips to the harsh curve of his cheekbone. He turned his head so that his mouth reached her jaw, teasing a sharp gasp from her throat. Biting her lip, she withdrew, idly dragging her lips against his face and pushing quick kisses along the warm flesh until sealed them to his. A low, needy groan worked from deep within the dwarf’s chest, but he made no move to push her further. 

Tyrion cupped one side of her face as they pulled away, sneaking one last peck on the tip of her nose. Stroking her sharp jawline with his index finger, he smiled away some of the somber glint still tangling in his gaze. “Sansa, I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the way you look at me. My brother aside, I’ve always doubted that there would ever be a single soul in this world who could love me. Because I came into this world killing possibly the only woman who could...a fact my sister and father never let me forget,” he muttered.

Lady Stark smiled, catching the tears at the corner of his eye with her thumb. “I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand. We had vastly different lives and childhoods. I know I took mine for granted. But Tyrion, life begins and ends with you for me. If it means we get to live a long and happy one together, I’m going to lie to anyone I have to, to play the game as I need to. You must know that whatever happens, it will be to you I will marry. It will be your children I carry. I’m going to give you the family you should have had from the beginning. But I can’t do that if you lose faith in me or question what we have anymore. I will never betray you, though I suspect I may have to do things that momentarily hurt us in order to protect the only chance I have at happiness.”

Tyrion’s features worked through several indistinguishable emotions. He remained silent, opting to drop his gaze to her mouth and bit the inside of his cheek.

“I was embarrassed and overwhelmed down in the great hall, Tyrion. I left because I had to be alone.” 

“Even from me?”

“You’re familiar with the complexities of our relationship, Tyrion. Your sister had the letter Ramsey sent to Castle Black. I panicked. If you require further explanation, I’m afraid that’s all I can give you. It’s the truth. What’s the matter?”

Gritting his teeth, Tyrion shook his head, looking down at all the scattered, ruined paper along the wood floor and pelt underneath his desk. “I can’t, Sansa…” 

“No. You don’t get to hurt me, so you can keep the thin remnants of your pride intact!”

The dwarf hesitated before flicking his attention back to her, his brows dipping as he gulped. “You read the letter...”

“The letter? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Everything, Sansa!” Tyrion shouted, making the lady flinch and clutch the thick fabric of her gown. Stepping toward her a pace, the dwarf covered his mouth with one hand until he calmed down a little. “The worst thing I’ve ever done was allowing you to believe that I’m a good man! Cersei, the cunt, explicitly detailed what happened to…”

“Tysha?” Sansa supplied, her whole body quivering as Tyrion closed his eyes and bowed his head between them. The thick, dark hair concealed most of his face from her given the angle and their difference in stature. Reaching for his face with both hands, Sansa gently eased him back up. Lightly brushing his cheeks with her delicate thumbs, the lady shook her head, gasping and lowering her mouth to press a lazy kiss against his forehead. Lingering there for a little while, Lady Stark gasped when he reached for her wrists, hoping he would not separate them. “Tyrion, I love you.”

The dwarf froze, his eyes and brows flattening and widening as he stared at her like she repulsed him. “You shouldn’t, Sansa. Especially given your history.”

“Please stop telling me what I should feel! Each and every day since Joffrey murdered my father, I’ve had to fall further within myself to stay alive. After almost a decade of endless agony, I finally feel alive. And it’s because of you.”

“Cersei wasn’t lying, Sansa. I stood by as my father’s guards each took their turn raping her. I did _nothing_.”

“You feared your father, Tyrion.”

“Do _not_ rationalize or excuse anything I’ve done to hurt the women I’ve loved, Sansa! I’ll never be the heroes sung in your pleasant romances. I’m a Lannister, not a good man anyone will ever sing songs of romance and heroism. I’ve done quite a lot to further my own interests, stabbed others in the backs, and used their suffering to keep my head attached to my small fucking body. The only reason people don’t cut me down where I stand is that my ill deeds are far overshadowed by the choices and sins of my father, Cersei, and Jaime. By comparison, the things they’ve done seem far more evil, but make no mistake that I’m capable of _very_ dark things, Sansa.”

“Tyrion, I don’t need or want a hero. I’ve already saved myself, and it’s not too late for you, either.”

Drawing his head back, the dwarf narrowed his eyes as he busied his mind with deciphering what she’d said. “What do you mean it’s not too late for me?”

“You asked me to save you, and I’ve decided I’m going to.”

Tyrion’s throat bobbed as he regarded her. Reaching to cup her jaw in both of his warm hands, he pulled her closer to him until their noses brushed. Searching her eyes, he slowly stroked her cheeks with his thumb pads. Opening and closing his mouth a few times, the man ultimately settled on something in his mind, indicated by his loud sigh and hesitant gaze. “I sometimes wish you’d indulge my renowned disparaging nature.”

A gentle smile curled the edge of one corner of the lady’s mouth, saying, “I should think there is enough room in this world for only one of us to have our way.” Clearing her throat just as a soft chuckle tickled it, Sansa lifted her hand and guided a bit of his hair away from his eyes. He leaned into her touch as an uneasy laugh coaxed from deep within his chest, melting the serious expression dragging down his features.

“Marry me, and I shall find a way to give you the world over, Sansa. That’s the only thing I’ll truly ever need to go my way.”

“By now, that has to be your fifth proposal for marriage…”

“I’ve been told I’m a bit excessive, just after my lustful, drunken, and self-deprecating tendencies,” he whispered, sliding a hand around the back of her neck and playing with her copper hair. Brows dipping as a contained grin brightened his features, Tyrion added, “Though I suppose not...given my suffering through many years of _celibacy_.”

Lady Stark rolled her eyes, sighing. “I only said that because Arya doesn’t know when to drop things.”

“Spent quite a lot of time pondering such scandalous subjects whilst I lay in the world’s most unfortunate mockery of a bed, I see?”

The lady leaned in, joining their lips for a sluggish, patient kiss. When she pulled back slightly, she looked to the floor and shook her head. “Not really in any way that should inspire excitement on your part.”

“How so?”

Tyrion brushed her lower lip with his finger, ensnaring her undivided attention again. Swallowing, Sansa lowered her head to his. “Before I saw any hint of affection from you...before you woke up, I spent a great deal of time considering a subject that terrified me. I’m sure you’re accustomed to much of which I shall likely never be capable. There will always be more that other women can give you what I cannot.”

“Sansa, only you are capable of giving me the one thing for which I’ve chased across many decades. It stands to be the sole thing that matters to me now. I need only you, your love.”

“You say that now…”

A gentle nudge at her chin caused her to meet his gaze again. “It shall always be true. I’ve never had what you freely choose to give to me. This unexpected, perfect thing between us...it’s the only thing that makes this cold, lost world make sense, Sansa. And today, when you walked away from me without a word, I thought I’d lost you forever. Because I couldn’t deny what Cersei wrote about. I hated even the idea that I could be remotely similar to my father and sister. So when I got back here, I saw all of the wine, and I just started drinking. I doubted you only because of my own stupidity. But, Sansa, I can’t take away the parts of me that I cannot change. There are things I’ve done that are unworthy of you. I no longer have the strength to live or go on without you. I can’t, and that scares me more than my father, Daenerys’ dragons, or the idea of dying ever has.”

The lady’s breath caught as thick, warm tears blotted the world around her, but she stopped the quiet sob cutting off her air supply. Releasing the breath from her lungs after a few seconds, Sansa wiped underneath his eyes and kissed his forehead, exploring him along the path of his healing, crude scar crossing over the bridge of his nose. Pecking the tip of it, she used her finger to lift his chin, so she could get a better angle of his mouth. 

“Tyrion, I’m sorry I walked away from you. We’re still adjusting to each other...this all happened so fast. I don’t know how I’ll react when you decide to share your history. But I’m not going anywhere. And no matter what happens between now and our second wedding, everything I do will be to be with you. I knew Shae only as a trusted friend. Perhaps I was naive. I still think about that time having her near me as fondly as possible given the circumstances. But what she did to you? I’m not sure I can forgive her for breaking you. We’ll fight, we’ll bicker, and we’ll disagree; however, you’re safe with me, Tyrion. I will _never_ betray you.”

Lowering her free hand to his bare chest, the lady flattened her palm over his heart. Tyrion winced, sucking in hissing air between his bared teeth. Sansa flinched and gasped, carefully beginning her retreat so as not to hurt him any more than she’d done so already; however, he covered the top of her hand in his, applying too much pressure. He growled, his throat bobbing as his features twitched to accommodate the self-inflicted discomfort. 

A lot had happened since their rather uneventful wedding night. Though she’d been with a man, more a monster than an actual person, since then, the lady never felt more like a naive girl with her maidenhood still intact than she did right now. Perhaps before Ramsey, Sansa would have been open to the possibilities Tyrion had grown used to. He’d created a rather fragile, yet still quite comfortable understanding between them as husband and wife.

Carefully fidgeting her antsy fingers against the ugly, almost fatal wound at his heart, Sansa swallowed, brows dipping when she readjusted on his bed. Scooting closer to the edge, the lady bit her lip and held her breath. Tyrion’s misshapen body was _so_ hot even in such a cool environment, and his groans vibrated from his throat all the way to her palm. The shirt he’d destroyed left little for her imagination to envision. Light chest hair tickled her thumb, working a shiver down her spine as her breath caught again. When she settled her pale gaze back on his, she saw the blacks in his eyes expand larger than she’d ever seen. Her own heart leaped in her chest, thrashing as it felt like it collided with her ribcage a few times. 

Breathless and burdened with her girlish inexperience, a cool dampness between her legs that had not ever been there before caught her unaware. Lady Stark dropped her eyes from his molten stare as her hand began to prickle and gently shake under his small palm. And when she exhaled, her whole body froze at the sight of Tyrion’s erection. They were so close that she felt the heat slip through the layers of her gown and onto her own skin. There was no fear, just uncertainty impregnated with a seed of curiosity that burrowed in her mind. The quick swap of thought from their rather serious, heartfelt promises to needy passion charging between them now gave her whiplash. 

As a girl, she’d admired boys and men with a similar demure shyness. When they seemed like they were close to shedding their tunics off, she’d be the first to blush and eventually look away. Now, however, the hard, surprising length of him ensnared her. When they’d shared their first kiss, she’d accidentally brushed its tip. Only weeks ago. Each beat of his heart ricocheted against her palm, still held captive by the man at whom she openly stared. Was it normal to stare for so long at it? It was different with him than with her dead husband. Silenced by her shock, the lady forced the air from her lungs in a feeble attempt to do _something_ else. Tyrion fidgeted from one foot to the other as the air impacted on his bare chest.

“Sansa, look at me,” he murmured, moving his hand from behind her head to cup around her ear and jaw. Everything fell away as she swallowed, apprehensively locking her gaze back with his. The dwarf studied her pale stare for a few long seconds. As he untangled the mess of thoughts dancing in her mind, she noticed that his lips relaxed and his features loosened. Each twitch at the corners of his mouth sparked a shadow of giddiness in her belly. Watching him think could easily be the most interesting pastime this world could offer her when all the dust of many wars settled. “You’re not afraid,” he whispered, a wide grin warmed his features.

“No.”

Trepidation marred the brief happiness in his eyes. Parting his lips, he said nothing else as he slowly eased in closer to her, stepping twice to accommodate his injuries. Their foreheads dipped together, and they basked in the feel of the other’s presence for a moment longer. Eventually, Tyrion teased her mouth, brushing it with his ghost-like touch. Playing with her patience for only a second, he pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, coaxing a frustrated sigh from her chest.

When he pulled back a bit, he chuckled, brushing her hair back over her shoulder. “Sansa, any more and I’m afraid nothing will keep me from loving you right now.”

“I know…”

“I meant what I’ve said already.”

When he remained silent for much longer than she expected, she rolled her eyes and groaned. “You’ve said so much in the last two weeks or so. What do you still mean?”

A small, satisfied grin spread over his mouth as he chuckled and shook his head. “Explore me at your own pace to discover what feels right and good for you. We’ll rewrite the rules, together, and share something all our own, Sansa.”

The moment he uttered the word _explored_ , the inside of her thighs tingled, so she readjusted on his bed and looked down, clearing her throat to poorly disguise her sharp gasp. “I want you to see something…” she whispered, not bothering to hide the bright blush burning her pale cheeks. 

Tyrion’s warm palm cupped her cheek, bringing her gaze back onto his. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at her like he was hungry for food he’d not eaten in several days. “What is it?”

Swallowing down the ball stuck in her throat, the lady leaned into his touch and barely kept control of a wayward whimper pining for his attention. Parting her lips, she sharply inhaled and leaned her forehead onto his. “Do you recall the words along my collarbones?”

“Yes.”

“There’s more, and I want you to see one, specifically. On the inside of my thigh.” When she looked at him, she sighed. The gentle curve trapped in the corner of his mouth fell as the light in his gaze darkened. He deflated against her underneath all the regret and grief. “Tyrion, don’t look at me like that. Please…”

“Did he die screaming?” he choked, his shaking free hand reaching behind her head, so she looked at him. “Tell me he died in a way that made you smile.”

The same darkness that dwelled within his faintly echoed across her heart. As she watched him studying her so intently, Sansa realized he saw the same shadows cast within her. Tyrion Lannister, of all people, knew her in a way no one else ever would. What lied behind her carefully crafted walls did not scare him. Not like it frightened Jon or shocked Brienne. A desperate rush of need sunk deeper into her belly, making her toes curl even more in her boots. 

Swallowing, she exhaled before saying, “I’d never seen him afraid before. He’d starved his mongrels for seven days, unfortunately for him. Jon beat him all but to a pulp. Only his haunting eyes remained recognizable. Even though iron bars separated him from me, I was still close enough to taste the stench of his blood as it mixed with the parts of him that his dogs ripped from his body. I only turned my back and walked away from him because I’m a Stark. A lady shouldn’t enjoy a sight far more gruesome than when she saw her father’s head roll away from his body. But my name couldn’t stop the smallest of smirks from prying up. I thought I hated Joffrey; however, I still wish I could have done more to hurt that man before he died.”

“I never knew it was possible that someone else could know what that feels like.”

“Your father?”

Tyrion kissed her, his quick nod making his nose brush against hers. Dipping their heads together, the dwarf smoothed down some of her hair on the side of her face and closed his eyes. They both trembled against each other as he claimed her mouth to steal even more broken, desperate kisses. Planting the hand he’d previously covered hers over his heart on her shoulder, Tyrion slid his touch from there down to where her narrow waist naturally curved. Sneaking his gentle grasp back down to the small of her back, the dwarf pulled her body toward the edge of the bed. Despite his size, he always surprised her with how strong he actually was. The thin crimson sheets on his bed did help her body slide forward to where he desired her a little.

“Show me, Sansa.”

Breaking apart from her, Tyrion sank to his knees as he moved both of his palms on her knees and tried to push them out. Caught under his spell, the lady panted until she clamped her mouth closed, never ripping her gaze from his. The dwarf’s features danced, twitching with more emotion than she’d ever seen any one person endure. Slipping his hands up her thighs, Tyrion stared up at her as he guided them open, so he could slip between them. Her gown fell around the lithe shape of her long legs, outlining the parts of her she hated for him. However, she made no move to stop the man. Rather, her shaky breath shuddered from her chest as she closed her eyes and leaned her head back a little. His name tumbled from her tongue as a quiet whisper. When he was satisfied with the room he’d coaxed from her body, he flattened his palms against the inside of her thighs, bunching her skirt as he did so. He tightened his fingers on her through the thick fabric keeping him from her, almost pinching the words etched into her body on either leg. 

Swallowing, he dropped his forehead against her right thigh, hesitantly moving as he hunched his shoulders to lean closer toward her center, which was lost in the sea of the black layers she’d personally stitched together. Her copper hair swayed against her back, the ends tickling the red linens and pelt at the foot of the bed as a shiver danced up and down her spine. A quiet moan hummed in her throat, rumbling until it dropped into her belly. Biting her bottom lip, Sansa gasped again when she felt him sink his bared teeth into the fabric over her thighs, his guttural growl the only thing she heard. The room felt as though one of Daenerys’ dragons had swept through to revitalize the dying flames snapping in the hearth. A thin layer of sweat whispered against her body.

Shivering, Sansa opened her eyes, swallowing as he slipped his arms around her narrow waist, palms flattening against the top of her bum and nails shaking as he scratched the fabric of her gown. Tyrion leaned his head on her stomach below her breasts, kissing her down to her hips on either side. Thick tears blurred the room again. Shoving her jittery hands in his curly hair, she absently played with the ends at the nape of his neck. 

Slowly, like she was an unbroken horse, his shaky hand traveled to Sansa’s knee. Swallowing, the dwarf parted his mouth, saying nothing as his fruity breath warmed her throat. Tyrion gripped the bunched gown, staring up at her like he waited for her to stop him. Sansa’s tears quietly fell until they dripped from her chin as the man brushed the middle of her exposed leg just below the knee. Though she moved her head, the lady wasn’t sure if it was, necessarily, a nod or a shake. The little man risked breaking his spell over her as he slipped his hand underneath her skirts, the gown lifting the closer to unveiling one of the markings that had almost brutalized the signature beauty of which she’d always loved.

People had seen two of them, but no one had touched her or them in so long. With his other hand, Tyrion guided the dark fabric back, ensuring her center was obstructed from his view. Sansa loved that he honored her, knowing he was likely ready to melt his soul into hers by now. 

“You’ll have to rip the thigh of my undergarments, to the right. Pants suit the Northern climate better than an underskirt would,” Sansa whispered, her wild, frantic breaths making her head go light. Ladies weren’t supposed to show this part of themselves to men aside from their husbands. The propriety she hid behind scorched the base of her skull, shocking her body almost into submission as she’d always allowed when it came to intimacy, the marriage bed, or her ugly body. 

The dwarf sensed her unease, and he started to pull away, but she caught his hand, sealing it to the outlying letters Ramsey had carved into her there. When he fixed his hungry gaze on hers, his chest heaved as he shivered against her, seemingly frozen by her needy touch. Swallowing, Tyrion cleared his throat, nodding once and slowly gripping the thinner ivory-colored fabric. Straining a little, he carefully tore through it, exposing her bare skin to him for the first time. On their wedding night, he’d seen her in a mild state of undress not uncommon for husbands and wives. However, he dropped his chin and lowered his gaze on the full word immediately visible to him. He gently brushed his chapped mouth over the crude scar, the feel of his lips against her otherwise smooth, heated skin sending chills over her arms and making her center feel even funnier. 

Hot and cold all at once. 

Gasping, Sansa moaned again, leaning forward until the ends of her hair tickled the top of his hands. Tyrion kept pushing her dress away and ripping more and more of her undergarments, eventually making out the word _Demon._ His lips brushed the word backward as he continued his pursuit, quickly seeing the word _Daughter._ Gently nipping the center of the last syllable, the dwarf worked a stuttered gasp from her chest. 

Something shifted between them, and he held the gown back once he uncovered the full phrase. Kissing the word _Disgraced,_ Tyrion pulled back, staring down at her dead husband’s work. Using his index finger, he traced each letter from start to finish, whispering, “Why did he cut _these_ words into you?” The deepness of his voice rumbling in his chest resonated against her exposed flesh, the cool air pinching her there. “You told him about this…”

“No,” she quickly answered. Stroking some of his hair back, she waited for him to look up at her again before answering. “I couldn’t stop him from hurting me, but I had the power to deny him any other part of me other than my body. He, um...he did this, so I would forget who I was. It was our private game, but it prevented him from doing the other things he never got around to doing for another night. By the time he got to the two on my thighs, I was desperate for more insults or monikers to delay the worst to come. Almost as desperate to remember your touch on my hand or the sound of your voice in the only memories I honestly cherish from my time in the capital.”

“After what he did, how could you stomach trusting anyone to touch you again?” Tyrion asked, his brows furrowing as his mouth flattened. Shaking his head, he sniffled. “And out of all the men in the world, you choose to trust me?” he muttered, pulling his hands from her. The thick layers of her gown swallowed her legs up as he moved both of his hands to her waist.

“Do you still doubt me, Tyrion?”

“I’ve had a lifetime to practice doubting everyone,” he said. Planting his hands on her knees, he hoisted himself back up to his feet, stumbling a little. “But I don’t doubt you, Sansa. Not anymore. I just can’t believe this and you are real.”

When they were like this, he was taller than her by a hair. No matter how they were, though, they’d always be equals. At least to her. Rubbing her thumb under one of his eyes, the lady helped dry his eyes. “I’m not everyone, Tyrion. And your sister’s raven hasn’t made me reconsider my feelings for you. I’ve never trusted Cersei. I only trust you. I know you will eventually tell me what happened. I don’t want to hear it, though, until you’re ready to share, once this is all over. We both need to focus on the game right now.”

“Why me?” he asked, cupping her face and sinking his eyes to her mouth. Searching her features, Tyrion brought their lips together, sharing with her his most tender of kisses yet. When her breath caught, he pulled away, brushing some of her hair away from her face. “Your love is wasted on a dwarf…”

Stomach going hollow, Sansa swallowed, dipping her brows and pressing her forehead to his. “Tyrion,” she started, her fingers trailing up from his hands to his elbows until her touch feathered up to his shoulders. She loved the shiver her touch ignited in his body. She wished she could touch his chest, but the wounds there were healing a little slower than the one on his face. Hurting him would forever be out of the question. “I know we’re both still coping with the aftershocks of different kinds of trauma. And a love like ours is complicated, dangerous even. Our history is ugly. You’re a Lannister. I’m a Stark. I’m sure there are many secrets buried in our hearts that will test us over the coming years, but you saved me from two monsters I wish had never breathed. When no one else could protect me, you did. Even if you were falling in love with another woman or if you didn’t know it. You always treated me with compassion and kindness. You were gentle.”

Tyrion reached around her neck, pressing his palm at the base of her head and shoving their lips together. The lady shyly guided her hands down his back, not stopping her slow pursuit until she paused right at the hemline of his breeches. Each time they were alone, they mutually explored more of their small world. The cavalier man prodded her mouth open for him, earning a blush that itched her cheeks and a quiet gasp, which he swallowed with his hungry growl rumbling between their sparring tongues. 

Was she even doing this right? Was it what he liked?

Sansa’s hands shook, her fingers curling in response as her manicured nails scratched his bare skin. The dwarf angled his head to the side, allowing him to explore her mouth deeper than he’d ever had the chance to. A bolt of fragile courage slipped through her control, and she rubbed the bottom of his tongue with the smooth expanse of hers, massaging it like he’d done several times by now. Tyrion lowered his grasp to her hips and used strength that surprised her to pull her to the edge of his bed. His wounded chest collided into hers with a loud, frenzied groan. His growls ricocheted up and down her chest, and he swallowed her girlish giggle before she could pull apart from him to do so. Toes curling in her boots, the lady brushed the side of his face, pouring some of the bravado she’d built up with the icy, stoic walls that had kept everyone out into her attention. Like she could expand the borders of her sharp guard to surround the both of them. 

Tyrion ripped his mouth from hers, his chest heaving like he’d spent the whole day training or sparring. Pressing a sweet, gentle peck against the corner of her mouth, the dwarf nipped at her sharp jaw, stealing another gasp from her throat. “I will never doubt you again. The past rushed back to me, entangling all of my insecurities and amplifying all of my fears. None of which you have caused or is at all fair to you. Cersei and my father have always found ways to take away any happiness I’ve ever believed could be mine. Please don’t waste any Nightshade on me…Not when you need it and won’t take it.”

“We can’t take any unnecessary risks around Daenerys.”

Tyrion cupped her cheek, his thumb tenderly tracing the delicate curve of her mouth. “I’d sooner die before I knowingly put you in danger, Sansa. I’m asking you to trust me. I’m not as drunk as I wanted to be moments ago.”

“Tyrion, I can’t worry about you tonight. I might have to lie to my brother or Daenerys to keep the peace for a little while longer.”

“I may be able to help sway Daenerys if need be. You need me there with you…”

“You’ll have to act more wounded than you really are. If she thinks you’re capable enough for travel, she’ll take you away from me.”

“I’m not going anywhere. No matter what I might have said earlier, I’m never going to leave you or fuck another woman again. Winterfell is my home now. And as far as I’m concerned, you are already my wife.”

“No matter what I promise, do, or say, I need you to trust me. We have a few options to play with now that Robin and Yara are here. I’ve learned that there is always a loophole or underhanded angle to exploit to ensure we secure what we want, Tyrion. I’m not like Jon or my father. I’m going to do whatever I must to keep you and our future safe.”

Tyrion hesitated before speaking again. “What of my brother? If he’s in chains when she arrives, she may order his execution.”

“Jaime will be a nice distraction for some time, depending on how long she decides to stay.”

The dwarf drew his head back, scrunching his brows as he swallowed. “What do you have in mind?”

“His child grows in Cersei’s womb. So long as we can keep Daenerys focused on her, the less time she’ll have to suspect anything more that she does so already from us.”

“You don’t mean to…”

Stroking his cheek, Sansa smiled and moved her head to his. “Tyrion, do you trust me?”

“I do.”


	13. Of the Humbled and Exalted

* * *

**Chapter 13**

_Winterfell_

Sansa

* * *

“Leave us,” Sansa gently spoke, raising her chin as Jaime stood from the larger bed he and the knight who had yet to leave her lady’s side shared. Lady Stark’s attention fixed on the elder Lannister brother even as she heard Brienne’s sigh. Holding up her hand near her shoulder, the lady parted her mouth and frowned, not once looking away from the Kingslayer. “Brienne, the window in this room is much too small. I doubt he could push me through it. I will be fine alone with him.”

The faithful knight did not budge from her place beside the lady. Rather, they each dwelled in the room in a prolonged, awkward silence. The once famed Golden Lion, the pride of House Lannister, swallowed, finally meeting Sansa’s pale stare. “It appears you have more faith in me than even my captor…”

“I will not leave you alone with the same man who would have killed the stableboy if given the opportunity.”

“Do you remember what you told me in the Godswood just a little while ago?” Sansa snapped, eyes narrowing as she glanced over her shoulder back to her most trusted knight clad in black, bulky armor.

Wild features working in perfect sync with the frenzied conflict swelling in Brienne’s helpless gaze, the brutish woman openly pleaded with her lady. The momentary defiance prodded too much at the lady’s patience, the supply already running thin without being in such close proximity to someone of whom she all but detested the very sight. “I vowed I would never leave you unless you instructed otherwise.”

“There is much you must do on my behalf. Unless I must also remind you of what we discussed on our way here, that will be all. Please send for Lord Theon. Tell him to wait outside for me.”

Slowly, the knight bowed and hesitantly took her leave. “Of course, Lady Stark.”

Sansa slipped her glare back to Jaime, who momentarily deflated the more distance that separated him from the woman he’d hurt. “You did this to yourself,” the lady said, her voice clipped and tone curt. Narrowing her eyes and flaring her nostrils as she sighed for added emphasis, she joined her hands behind her back and lifted her chin as she regarded the broken man before her. She hated that he appeared so obviously lost, so vulnerable before her.

When Jaime flicked his sad stare from the door back to the lady, he sighed. “Yes, well...I bring quite a lot upon myself these days.”

The lady glanced around the room the longer their silence dragged on. It was messier than she ever remembered Brienne’s room to be, but she supposed that was normal when she had to temporarily devote her quarters to containing her new, bored captive. Sighing, Sansa swallowed and regarded the southern knight again. Ser Brienne’s hostage stared rather intently at her lips as an unexpected, small, and knowing grin quirked the corner of his mouth up. His unexpected attention made her bite her lip as she fidgeted with her fingers behind her back.

“You’ve seen my brother.”

_Tyrion’s stubby fingers disappeared in the lady’s bright copper hair, tugging the flower braid a little loose this time as he fisted a thick section in his palm. Pulling a bit, her scalp began burning as she made no attempt to stop the song of passion he currently orchestrated, using her body to sing and play for his each and every whim. Not bothering to stifle the shiver rocking up and down her body, Sansa moaned, swallowing his feral, frenzied growl. Time blurred behind the rush of feeling he poured into her. The heat of his tongue tangling against and around hers burned brighter than the tears slipping down her face. With his free hand, the dwarf reached for her cheek, wiping the slow streams of moisture back into her messy hair and bringing her closer than he’d ever taken her before. Her heart raced, and the wild rush of the electric moment distracted her from the fear she often displayed in just the mention of anything untoward._

_Sansa knew Tyrion would keep her safe in his arms. And he refused to let her drift too far away from him. Anytime she hesitated, he somehow paused his passion long enough for her to find him and the patient pace he set for them again._

_The world fell dark as Tyrion pulled away from her. Loosening his grip on her hair, he opened his eyes. Sansa reached for his face, her thumb tracing the strong curve of his cheekbone to wipe away a few of his own tears. Brows flattening, the lady brushed her mouth to his, knowing what she risked for them both by doing so. The dwarf brushed his lips over her face, starting with her chin and lazily moving his way up without using a specific path or pattern. Neither one of them spoke while he quietly spoiled her with warm, infectious kisses. Dropping her hands from his face and shoulder to the small of his back, Lady Stark teased the tip of his nose by brushing it with hers, fooling him into thinking she’d kiss him again. When he chased her lips with his greedy, hungry mouth, she drew her head back slightly with a playful smile. She softly chuckled when he grumbled something scandalous under his breath and dipped her forehead to his, the sound tickling her chest until her breath caught. The man closed his eyes again and followed her arms until he claimed both of her hands in his. Folding his fingers between the spaces of hers, Tyrion inhaled rather sharply and stared at her for a moment._

_“This will be the last kiss until we’re married, Sansa.”_

_“I know…”_

_Bringing the tops of her fingers to his lips, Tyrion pressed an endless supply of quick kisses over her smooth skin. Rubbing her fingers with his thumbs, his bottom lip trembled. “You must go,” he reminded her._

_Sansa closed her eyes and hummed, resting the tip of her nose against his as they continued bowing their heads together. “Tyrion, this is_ not _a goodbye. Someday rather soon, you will hold me just like you have today, tonight. We will love each other until the cold cannot reach us. I will be your wife, and you my husband. We will never lose each other. Only for you will I play the game to bring about the peace Westeros has so desperately needed for the past few decades. Together, we will always save each other.”_

_“I love you, Sansa,” Tyrion said, his voice pitching higher than he’d ought to._

_A gentle smile spread over her mouth. Quietly humming, the lady traced his exposed scar along his features. Lady Stark had danced across a half-decade as the concept of romance’s glimmer dimmed bit by bit over time. The girl who’d once been ready to surrender to the drama and splendor had all but died quietly within the woman Sansa had needed to become in order to survive. Yet, in this perfect moment with this extraordinary man, a piece of the past slipped back in place with her battered heart. “And I love you, Tyrion. My heart is yours and yours alone.”_

_Swallowing down a quick gulp of air, the little man’s hands tightened on her body and face, the fabric of her gown bunching between the spaces between his fingers. Pinching his mouth to the side, the dwarf choked on a quiet sob before sinking his eyelids shut and leaning into her again. The edges of their lips brushed, the touch soft exactly like the breath of a whisper against her skin. “The day you are mine again will be the day I shall never let you go.”_

_“Tyrion?”_

_“What is it?”_

_Sneaking in one last peck on his mouth, the lady cupped the side of his face with her palm, the edges of her fingers disappearing into his wild hair. He shivered against her touch. “Daenerys must believe you still love her.”_

_“I know. I’ve already worked out a general idea of what I will tell her about you.”_

_“What will you say?”_

_“Nothing that is actually true. Probably most of the things I told...Shae...when she pressed me about you. She wasn’t happy about our marriage.”_

_“I don’t suppose she would be. I can’t imagine how possessive she must have felt for you. She was always around me. It was sometimes overwhelming even though I had no one else who cared so much about me.”_

_A dull chuckle hummed in his throat, but his features tensed when he switched his faraway gaze back onto hers. Swallowing as he cleared his throat, Tyrion smoothed some of her hair back around the curve of her ear. “We don’t have to talk about Shae, Sansa.”_

_“Alright, then we won’t. But know you can tell me or ask me anything. Even about Ramsay, if you wish...I may not always know how to answer, but you’re the only one alive I trust so completely.”_

_The quick squint of Tyrion’s eyes signaled his skepticism. Searching her pale gaze for a moment, he lowered his chin until their foreheads rested against each other. “My...history doesn’t bother you?”_

_“Of course, I’m not fond of the idea of you with any other woman, Tyrion; however, everything you’ve endured is a part of who you are now. You didn’t love me when we were wed, nor did I love you. But we’re here, together, now.”_

“How is he? I could hear his drunken musing all the way from here…” Jaime eventually added. “He was either shouting _fuck you_ or that he _wanted_ to fuck you.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, not bothering to care that he’d obviously know he’d gotten under her skin. “Lord Tyrion made a mess of his bandages. Maester Wolkan is presently tending to him.”

“But I heard shouting. Lovers’ quarrel already?”

“Not quite as exciting as yours, Ser Jaime. I’m afraid it was simply an ill-timed misunderstanding.”

“Ah, yes. A misunderstanding…” he said. Rather abruptly, Jaime looked down at the fire behind her, dipping his brows, flattening his mouth, and tensing his shoulders. Swallowing, the southern knight folded his arms over his chest until he scratched the beard thickening along his jaw. “You know, you can’t protect him if you continue to make it so obvious. Once the dragon queen arrives, people may talk. The two of you haven’t exactly kept it very secret.”

“Just like you and Cersei, I suppose.”

Jaime chuckled, his expression distant, tense, and grave. Shaking his head, the knight scratched the back of his head. “We at least managed to keep it a secret for a while. No doubt much longer than you and Tyrion shall ever hope to be capable. I don’t question that he would plot Daenerys’ murder if it meant keeping you safe at this point. I’m sure you know he would do quite a lot for the people he loves. But nonetheless, you’re going to get him killed if you’re not more careful.”

“Well, most of the time we’ve spent together has been brief and in the presence of people who wouldn’t betray us. People can suspect all they want. We _were_ married once upon a time. We’re expected to be somewhat familiar in such an uncertain time. He saved my life down in the crypts.”

“You _do_ realize that the infamous Spider and that foreign translator with the dark, unruly hair heard you tell him that you loved him. Right?”

Drawing her head back, Lady Stark parted her lips, unable to say anything right away. “Thankfully, love has quite a lot of meanings. I wouldn’t want someone who’d sacrificed their lives to die feeling unloved. Perhaps it was simply an empty kindness said in a tragic, tempered moment.”

Jaime folded his arms over his chest, shaking his head as he rolled his eyes. “You know, you’re more Lannister than I believe you’re comfortable admitting, Lady Stark. Honestly? You remind me a bit of her...Cersei. And also a little of my father.”

“I-I can be quite convincing when the situation requires me to be. And I will do whatever I must to keep him safe, Ser Jaime. Of that,” Sansa paused, lowering her chin and narrowing her eyes. “...you can be certain.”

“Could you, say, throw a boy of ten out a tower window?”

Sighing, the lady shook her head, swallowing as she rubbed her palms together before her a few times. The corner of her mouth twitched up slightly. “You might be surprised what I would do for those _I_ love. And what else I might do to those I hate. I’m rather knowledgeable about what horrors people can inflict upon others.”

Taking a few seconds to study her expression, the reply seemed to satisfy him. “You know they _could_...betray you, I mean.”

Sansa lifted her chin again and straightened her spine as she pulled back her shoulders. “They could and have in the past; however, they won’t now.”

“How can you be so confident? You’re expecting to completely trust _two_ eunuchs?”

“Lord Greyjoy is a Northern lord, Jaime. More my brother now than any of them ever were. You _will_ not call him that again.”

“The boy’s sister...she’s blood. There’s nothing quite as binding than that, Sansa.”

“That’s not entirely true, though. You left Cersei and are here, now with Ser Brienne. Blood, gold, honor? None of those could compete with what he and I endured together when we escaped Winterfell. The other Northern lords squirm around him, and he notices it. It bothers him, but I know he would never hurt me. Even if he left with Daenerys and Yara.”

“Given the boy’s history, it’s still a flimsy risk at best…I’m not sure I could trust or work with someone who would possibly endanger my brother.”

“I imagine you’ve endangered him plenty over the years, Jaime. And risks are an important pillar of the great game. If you pay attention long enough, you start to pick up on patterns, things people desire. Risks become less...well, risky over time so long as you don’t forget the stakes should you fail or are wrong.”

“You’re not exactly a poet, Lady Stark.”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head as she paused, holding her breath for a second. “I’ll never be the wisest or the most powerful, but I excel at learning lessons from other people’s mistakes. I still have much left to learn. I _am_ , after all, still only twenty.” 

“You’ve _really_ changed, Lady Stark...Not quite the _Little Dove_ I vaguely remember barely noticing back in the capital,” Jaime said, parting his mouth as if to continue speaking. However, he just shook his head and rolled his eye.

“No further quips?”

“I’m not quite as young as I was the last time I was one Lady Stark’s prisoner. There was more of me when I baited your mother and brother from camp to camp. These days, I’m rather tired...missing a hand and an eye might be the cause of it all. Maybe not. Though, I suppose there’s some poetic irony to all of this.”

“Only this time, you’re not planning on running away.”

The speculation earned his undivided attention. Narrowing his eye, Jaime sighed. “I meant what I said to Brienne this morning.”

“At the _very_ least, you want to mean it.”

“A rather astute observation, my lady.” He sounded less than impressed.

Relaxing her posture a little, Sansa swallowed and glanced toward the door briefly. “I’m not here to talk about my family or anything to do with Ser Brienne.”

Jaime rubbed his hand over his face and scratched his ear, falling back down to the bed. His body bounced a few times before they waged a quiet war of watching the other. Shaking his head, tears welled in his twitchy eyes. “Then why _are_ you here, Sansa?”

“Because I need to know if you can or want to help me.”

“Help _you?_ With what?” Jaime spat, kicking one of his feet to prompt the chains around them to squeal against the floor. “I’m not exactly a free man here.”

“No, but you could be if you start making the right choices.”

“There’s a lot I could have been and done had I made what other people perceived to be the right choices, Lady Stark,” Jaime retorted, standing up again and looking down his nose at her. “According to Cersei, the right choice would have been to let my brother die for murdering our eldest son. And my father...well, let’s just say there’s nothing that any of us three could have done that would have ever been perceived as the _right_ choice to that man.”

“You seem to care a great deal about what other people think of you, but I don’t care about Tywin or Cersei Lannister. Only of what _you_ consider the right choices to be. I think you’ve always known the difference between right and wrong; yet, you’ve mostly chosen to allow others to manipulate you toward the wrong. One of the only choices I know you’ve likely made independently was killing the Mad King.”

“And you think _you’re_ the right choice?”

“I can’t answer that for you, but I’m an option. Likely the best one you have at this point. For what I’m certain will be the only time in this life, we have a common goal. I can’t explain it...why or when it exactly happened, but I _love_ him, Jaime,” Sansa quietly whispered, wincing when her voice cracked. After a moment, the lady recomposed herself and dropped her hands to her sides, continuing. “This invisible war of four queens ends. At the very least, we both know Cersei must die. But I think I know how the rest will go. It just depends.”

“On _what_ , exactly?”

“On you…”

Jaime reached between them and cradled her throat in his dirty palm, a gentle squeeze whispering its promise of death with only a bit more pressure. Lady Stark stayed perfectly still with the exception of the tiniest, sharpest breath. Her glare searched his as dark blonde bangs fell over his face. The man’s hand and body trembled as he dropped his mouth open, choking on a quiet sob. “You’re wrong about me. That’s what Brienne is thinking _right_ now. All it would take to prove her right is a single choice.”

“There is still hope in her, Jaime. She denies it to protect herself, but I saw it today when we were at the Weirwood tree. I don’t like you. I don’t trust you, but she deserves to be happy. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Why are you _here_ talking to me?” Jaime seethed. His fingers trembled against her throat as his eyes welled with thick tears. Shaking his head, he swallowed and gasped, struggling to draw his next breath. “Start trying to figure out who deserves what and you'll find yourself weeping for every person in the world,” he muttered. The words sounded exactly like what Cersei might say. The glossy beads slid down his face as his mouth trembled. Gritting his bared teeth, the southern knight’s features wobbled as he struggled to keep his control. “I didn’t want to hurt Brienne.”

“And yet you did…”

Readjusting his fingers on her neck, the Kingslayer cleared his throat and wiped his eye with his other arm. The man carefully monitored the amount of force he used while holding her in his grasp. Brows dipping, Jaime looked up at the ceiling as he rubbed his handless wrist on his gut. “I see your hatred. I even understand it. You people all look at me the same way. I should be used to it by now. Cersei is such a hateful woman. But a sliver of that hate also lives within me, too. I suspect it always will. I don’t expect you to believe or understand me. I know that only Cersei ever truly will. And if she’s gone, I’ll have nothing save the few people still living who ever gave a damn about me along with a nonexistent reputation, and a dry well of pride. No matter what I do, a part of me dies whether Cersei and our child live through this or not.”

“So why not just snap my neck right now?”

“All my life, I thought choices were reserved for only my father. The shadow of his influence and fear of our name basically ruled over the Seven Kingdoms even while bloody Robert Baratheon paraded his whores around to humiliate my sister. People always want to know why I love my twin sister. Well, I’ll tell you I didn’t get to _choose_ to love Cersei. I have been a slave to this love since we both shared the womb. Who I am while she still breaths is a Jaime Lannister that will no longer exist without her. But that wench showed me a different part of my soul over the years. Even as I feared what she made me feel, what sort of man I _wanted_ to be, I couldn’t ever push her away. The damned woman wouldn’t exactly leave me behind even if I had wanted it.

“When Tyrion murdered our father, I slowly understood that I’d been right about him all along. Only _he_ had the power to choose. The rest of us either succumb to death or drown trying to keep our heads above water. But with the same power Cersei enslaved me with, Brienne reached under the water and pulled me back up. As my sister drags me under the thrashing waves, she tugs me toward a distant, safer shore of unclaimed land. In _this_ new world, choice doesn’t seem to be so far out of reach. Even if it’s still impossible, that knight has shown me that I want to try. For her. Brienne is the only thing I’ve ever chosen. I still fucking choke on my feelings for Cersei, but that wench has rearranged the world I once thought I knew so well. You’re not fighting me off...why?”

“Because I know you won’t hurt me.”

Jaime chuckled, shaking his head as his features blackened. Employing all the spite in the world in his glare, the man tightened his grip and pulled her closer to him. Sansa smelled days of sweat, a hint of the hearth’s smoke, and a whisper of old leather on the traitor who’d played his part in the collapse of her whole family. Swallowing, the lady coughed as he triggered a gag against his more unforgiving grip. It still wasn’t enough to snuff the life out from her. He leaned into her until her ear was next to his mouth. Jaime shook against her as he kept her close. “I could end your life right now. I see it plain as day before me. I could cut your head off and ride to find Cersei. She would welcome me back with open arms when I toss your head at her feet. Together, we would slaughter Euron Greyjoy and burn the world down twice over...”

“You would have e-everything you need. Cersei, your child. An entire f-fleet to fight against Daenerys’ flames. You could a-all three burn together. W-why not just get on with it, then?” Sansa replied, mouth bumping against the top of his shoulder as the force of an unexpected tremor broke over his body. Struggling to catch enough air to slip past his grip on her, the lady coughed a few times. However, she flicked her eyes straight forward, locking onto the stone walls of the cramped quarters. The fire from the hearth at her heels almost burned.

“I can’t save her or our child. So long as Cersei lives, I am doomed to fail Brienne. But Tyrion...I protected him as best as I could over the years. I’ve been as good to that man as I’ve been able...except once,” Jaime drew back and gently shook her so she’d meet his gaze again. His lips formed the shape of several words as the disgraced knight fought for what to say next, the storm of thoughts visible on his broken expression. “Your family knows the lengths I would go for love, but I’m unwilling to be the one to destroy my brother again. Even if it costs me Cersei. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He _loves_ you, Sansa. Truly loves you. Not because you’re simply the first girl to show him any morsel of interest. And neither are you paid to tell him what he wants or needs to hear. This is real. So, if I or a part of me must die, let it be by properly saving him this time. If I didn’t see that you love him in return, I think you’d be dead right now.”

Some of his hair fell in front of his face, but neither looked away. His whole body shook, a violent storm of fury and chaos beside her. Swallowing, Jaime flattened his mouth as he ground his teeth together. The southern knight wasn’t wearing his eye patch, so as the lady glared up at him, she also caught glimpses of the ghastly wound. “Promise me something.”

“W-what?”

“Take care of him, Sansa. Protect him, better than any of us ever did.” More tears spilled down his cheeks. Swallowing, the man bared his teeth until he managed to catch his next breath. Eventually, he added, “I don’t know what’s going to happen to me after all of this is said and done. I have to know that he’ll be okay. He’ll be the last of us, but he _cannot_ be alone.”

The two of them continued to stare at each other until Jaime looked down and dropped his hand, stepping backward once. Sansa unconsciously brought her hand up to her throat and rubbed the spot he’d lightly squeezed, coughing as she choked for a moment on the sharp, frosty air stinging her down to her lungs. Quickly exhaling, she gripped her belly with her free hand until she regained her composure. Clearing her throat, Lady Stark backed away from him a few paces. “I promise, Jaime.”

Neither spoke for a few moments. They simply shared a rare moment of silence as they acclimated to the other’s presence. The fire snapped a bit in the span of time between the lady lowering her hand from her throat and Jaime gathering enough strength to look her in the eyes again. Sansa looked around the room, patiently waiting for him to speak. 

After a little while, the cooked knight asked, “Now, what could you possibly want from me, Sansa?”

**\- - - - - - - - - -**

“Our men still nurse wounds from the battle with the dead. If that cunt, Cersei, douses the castle with Wildfire, we may as well slit our own throats right now!” Lord Hornwood shouted, his voice carrying across the entire great hall. 

Lord Manderly rushed to his feet from the end of the long table he sat at, slamming his fist against the wood so hard, nearby utensils rattled against the plate they lay on. “We all swore fealty to House Stark, and _look_ at all of us—bickering amongst ourselves like a bunch of whipped girls...We allowed the Boltons to wreak havoc upon our great lands for far too long! Lands Lady Stark took back for us all! With the help of the Vale, of course. Now, Cersei comes to our home threatening her life...after she’s already tried to break faith between House Stark and House Targaryen with Lady Sansa’s attack just _weeks_ ago...and right here at Winterfell.”

Lord Hornwood narrowed his eyes at Wyman and shook his head. “Lady Stark...we need a queen, not a lady! The dragon queen…”

Tyrion sighed, tapping his fingers against the head table as he rubbed the back of his neck with the other. “...needs to focus on the real threat to all our lives. The attack on Lady Stark’s life has already crippled the good faith Jon Snow built between these two great Houses. I am the Hand of the _dragon_ queen, and I represent her interests while I’m still here. Just as we sued to reach a mutually needed armistice with my sister at the Dragonpit, Lady Sansa understands that we must all continue to make sacrifices until our real enemy stops breathing.”

Lord Glover, who’d arrived at Winterfell only days ago at Sansa’s request, glared at the dwarf. “How do we know for certain it wasn’t that bitch you call queen who attacked Lady Stark, Imp?”

Before Tyrion could answer, Sansa rose from her chair at the center of the head table. “Lord Glover, Lord Tyrion is a guest at Winterfell. He and Lord Varys have been invaluable in aiding me in finding answers about my attack. Their efforts keep us from another war. The Lord Hand saved me from a wight down in the crypt. The North owes House Lannister...and Daenerys’ generous aid a great deal.”

“We owe the _Lannisters_ less than a heaping pile of pig shit!”

Walking around the table, the lady took her place beside Lord Manderly, joining her hands behind her and lifting her chin. “Lord Glover, you stayed at Deepwood Motte after Jon returned with Daenerys Targaryen.”

The older man stalked his way to Lady Stark, huffing and visibly shaking when he stopped just a step away from her. Although taller than the lady, Sansa did not budge a muscle, simply choosing to meet her neutral stare with the rage coursing through the burly man. “I know the game you're playing, Lady Stark. I’ve seen and heard all about the tricks your Littlefinger taught you. You spent _years_ in the company of this whoremonger and his family...as well in the company of that brothel keeper. And now House Stark _operates_ one in Winter Town! Ned Stark would be beside himself if he were here to deal with you, my lady. You may have the Stark name, but you will never be of the North!”

Sansa stepped toward him, close enough to where she could feel his breath spread over her face. The lord walked back a pace, swallowing and glare faltering. “Do you want to know the real reason I’m not yet a queen?”

“My lady…”

Stepping forward once more, she walked him backward and straightened her shoulders. “I’ll tell you anyway,” Sansa said, lifting her chin as she assumed another step toward him. He continued stumbling backward, rather than engaging with her silent challenge. “The North died the day my father’s head rolled away from his body. It is not as it once was. I don’t yet trust the Northern lords to uphold their vows to my House,” she said, her voice sounding exactly as she had when she was a bored, spoiled girl who refused to speak with her father. “How can I be a queen when all I have as a lady is a still divided North?”

Littlefinger had never kept his love for her mother a secret. He’d always confirmed it when asked. Without much hesitation. In retrospect, Sansa deduced it was to make other people feel like they could play his game and win. It made them risk a hell of a lot more when standing toe-to-toe with him, and he’d always cut anyone who stood in his way down with ease. It was a trick of confidence that he’d used to steer the game in his favor, one the lady very much intended to exploit for herself now. The lady had a unique obligation to honor and truth: mostly because of the weight her name carried. But she still needed to play the game. Stray too far from her father’s legacy of honor and truth, and she would certainly die with the rest of the Starks. It had taken her a while to manipulate the secrets to fit inside of the confines of the truth; however, the stakes were far too high for her to lose now.

Lord Glover’s features contorted, his gaze darkening as his mouth flattened and twitched. “Does that anger you, my lord? Very well. It’s the truth. Just like the very real truth that House Glover’s faith is situational at best. In the time since you cowered back to Deepwood Motte with your tail between your legs, the _Imp_ saved the lady of the House to which you, again, swore your unfailing loyalty, and the Red Wolf of Winterfell beheaded a Dothraki man, a _girl_ with no skill at the sword or combat. I would ask you where your House’s courage or honor is, but the answer is the same as it was when you turned me and Jon away when we called upon you to stand against Ramsay. I doubt very much that it exists.”

Lady Stark needed the Northern lords to fall in line with her. Once thought incapable of betrayal, the lady would have to weed out any possible threats in them. By root and stem. It was a fine line between prancing around like a helpless lady and dancing in the shadows pulling the strings. There was much she still needed to learn about the world. Thankfully, Tyrion was someone who would show it to her. For now, Sansa would continue in her pursuit of sleuthing the truth from every shadow. So long as she remained a lady in Winterfell, the other lords would see her as an approachable ally. Robb and Jon both assumed a royal title, and they’d both failed in uniting the whole of the North in the long-term. Though hardly anyone enjoyed or liked Littlefinger, he’d played the game as the unknown victor, camouflaging himself in Tywin Lannister’s shadow for many years. If anyone suspected her of structuring her quiet dominance in the game after a man like Petyr, she’d likely lose any power her name commanded. That meant she couldn’t afford for the Northern lords to lose their focus on other distractions like the dragon queen or Cersei.

The steel in Lord Glover’s glare sharpened the longer she sustained her impassive stare and bored expression. Eventually, his posture deflated, but his features were still black. Rolling his eyes, the man grumbled a curse under his breath and returned to his seat. Their mutual stare held long enough for her to see him shake his head and look away. 

Sansa checked over her shoulder back at Lord Manderly, who grumbled something under his breath. The old man didn’t fully trust her. The people in the North hardly knew her beyond the few months she’d ruled Winterfell in her brother’s stead, so that was both wise and understandable. However, he seemed to respect the person the circumstances had shaped her to be. Briefly, before igniting all the present drama in the great hall, they’d come to an arrangement. Better to include the skeptical in her bait and switch schemes than to evade him and break all possibilities of trust in the future. Beyond all that, the man understood that the North’s future started and ended with Lady Stark. And she, in turn, knew she could learn a few things from him. Even if White Harbor burned to the ground, he still would be the most powerful lord in the North so long as she stood beside him. The other lords’ resources paled in comparison to what Lord Manderly had provided to their people.

Wyman sighed, waiting for a second longer before saying, “Lady Stark is making every reasonable effort to spare any further loss of life.”

“Reasonable effort?” Lord Hornwood bellowed. “White Harbor is the North’s only port! The dragon queen already depleted our food stores enough between her dragons, an army of eunuchs, and a horde of savages. Now you’re asking us to let go of our only means of trade like it’s nothing! Without White Harbor, we’re doomed.”

Sansa wanted to roll her eyes, but she managed to sustain the image of her unwavering composure before her lords. “The North _will_ be an independent kingdom, my lords. I’ve dedicated my life and death to this cause. But if we’re to survive this winter, we require a productive relationship with the south. But unlike Robb and Jon, I make no long-term plans in keeping the company of or consorting with a foreign match. When the war has ended, I must marry to further my House’s name. My duty is and always will be devoted to the North, and my husband will be a Northern lord. Know that I will never hand over our independence. Ports can be rebuilt, but we’ve already lost too many lives to all the rather pointless wars fought over the last eight or so years. I imagine the next decade will be the hardest in our recorded history. I can’t picture that peace will be as easy to secure as any of us wish it were. However, if we’re to have a future, we require the people we still have left to help shape it with us.”

“Perhaps our hesitation in House Stark would wane if our new Warden of the North honored her people with the castles left without lords…” Lord Glover suggested. “At the very least, we Northmen ought to know to whom we’ll need to bend our knees. Who will be our king?” Looking around the room, the older man grinned when a bunch of men in the hall banged their cups against the table and whispered amongst each other. His glare burned in his small, smug victory.

“Lord Glover, I am not yet a queen. Therefore, I am not yet a prize for the great lords of the North to court.”

“You’re saying you’ve no plan or idea how the North will fare! How is it that the North is your duty when all you occupy your attention with is another bitch’s war?”

Sansa’s features tightened at his thinly veiled insult. A small quirk of her mouth signaled her impatience; otherwise, her countenance remained impenetrable and passive as ever. “If we do not survive Cersei or if Daenerys decides to bring fire down over Winterfell today, how can you expect me to _occupy my attention_ on our tomorrow?”

“If you’re ill-prepared for the job, then perhaps, Lady Stark, we should consider another to rule in your place…”

Just as Lady Stark parted her lips to refute the clear threat, someone cleared their throat behind her. The noise sharpened her focus back onto the more immediate threat. “Lady Sansa, do we know where Cersei’s fleet is?” Lord Manderly asked abruptly. When she checked over her shoulder, she saw that Wylis had moved closer to her a little.

The lady glanced to Lord Varys, who stepped forward, arms joined in his large sleeves at his front. “According to my birds, she abandoned the capital with the Iron Fleet and the Golden Company two nights ago.”

“The fleet will reach white Harbor no later than eighteen more days if the sea and winds are good,” Lord Manderly replied, somber and gaze distant. “The cold may slow them down a bit,” he added. Quickly, he shook his head and set his attention on Lady Stark, who nodded and returned to her chair and sat between Tyrion and Brienne.

Sansa glanced at the dwarf, nodding her head once more. His hands fisted in an instant, and his posture straightened as he readjusted himself in his rolling chair. Swallowing, he narrowed his eyes and surveyed the Northern lords. “There’s more news...Daenerys rides for Winterfell,” he said, wincing when the room ignited in a fury of shouting and grumbling. Gritting his teeth, he darted his eyes around the room, his hair shaking in front of his eyes. “My lords, I understand and appreciate that the North and queen Daenerys perhaps will _always_ maintain a certain tension, but if we’re to defeat my sister, we _must_ work together. It’s in all of our self-interests to ensure both the North and southern kingdoms set aside our vast differences to end Cersei’s rule once and for all. For now.”

“I’m tired of outsiders telling us what we _must_ do. Little lord, keep your self-interests and leave us in peace,” Lord Hornwood grumbled. Shifting his attention to Lady Stark, who lifted her chin. “My lady, I’ve heard some unsettling things about you in the past few weeks. I hear you’ve given Lord Tyrion Robb’s old quarters. I hear you’ve held small council meetings with a little lion, a spider, and a kraken. There are other more _disgusting_ rumors that are not worthy of being repeated in your presence, Lady Stark...specifically regarding what took place down in the crypts.”

Whispers hissed across the room, but Sansa didn’t budge an inch in her seat. Instead, a pleasant smile fixed on her mouth as she said, “You said it yourself. I’m not yet a queen. Therefore, there cannot yet be a small council, my lord. And if we have enough time to entertain rumors, perhaps the North is in better shape than I initially thought.”

“You do not deny them, my lady?” Lord Glover seethed, his menacing glare blackening in an unsettlingly small amount of time. “That you love the son of the same man who slaughtered your mother and our king?”

Gasps and curses across the enraged room ignited brighter than the fire in the hearth behind the head table. All the while, Sansa remained unaffected. Lifting her chin, she folded her arms on the table as she leaned toward the Northern lords. “Do you think I don’t know of what people whisper about me? They suspect I’ve actually mated with my late husband’s hounds. They wonder what it was like to be his wife, what all he did to me if that vile thing isn’t true. He flayed people alive. What sort of things did he do to me? And when they think I am not paying attention, some of them even try to picture me bare. They ask themselves what sort of horrors lay beneath all the many layers of my gowns,” the lady said. 

Most men softened or squirmed when it was a delicate lady who was hurt or in need of saving. Mentioning Ramsay both reminded them of their poor choices prior to her House regaining Winterfell and exploited their sympathies. By simply sweeping the hall with her gaze, she saw most of them settle down, looking anywhere but at her. Sansa continued, “Anyone who believes love is still possible for a woman like me are fools. Perhaps this is _unworthy_ for me to admit, but I can’t even imagine what it would be like with another man. Yet I will be queen. I must do what is expected of me to the best of my ability.” Swallowing, she settled her stare on Lord Hornwood. “As for Lord Tyrion, I thought he was going to die. He tried to keep me comfortable while I was under his protection at the capital. He saved my life, so I wanted to pay back his kindness in what I believed to be his final moments. It was only a way to repay him. Nothing else.”

“By saying you love him, my lady?” Lord Hornwood replied, his brows tugging down toward his nose as his mouth hung open as if he prepared something else to add. However, when nothing else followed, he simply sighed.

“The dead had risen. Ramsay introduced me to a world of dark and dangerous things, but those things I shall never forget. I can still smell them. And when the bones of my ancestors broke free from their tombs, I was prepared to die, to lose everything. I was tired and overwhelmed, my lord. I recalled a memory of my mother when Arya pushed me once. I fell in the yard where a horse broke loose. I had never been so scared before, but my mother saved me before it could trample over me. I can’t remember what she sounded like, but in that moment, she told me she loved me. And I recalled feeling so safe. In a dark corridor stranded with dozens of dead or dying people, I wanted to remember what that felt like as well as provide any empty comfort I could.” The lie came rather easy to her.

The room fell silent, but the majority of them mustered enough courage to meet her gaze as she surveyed the room. Much of the doubt that previously tangled in their stares dissolved. The tension in the men and lords’ shoulders eased as each of them processed her reply. Ideally, such information would not be something she’d address publicly, but it was clear that some of the Northern lords wanted to expose _any_ possible weakness they could find. If she evaded the subject, they would only find more reasons not to fully trust her. And Sansa could no longer afford such setbacks. Not if she expected the North to thrive sooner rather than later. For now, she’d won over the vast majority of the room. Except for one man who visibly shook across it.

“Piss on that!” Lord Glover stood, shouting and stalking up to the head table. When he reached it, the man glared at Sansa. “You think yourself so clever, girl,” he retorted, turning his back to the lady to face what was left of the Northern lords. “She conspires with the same men whose family slaughtered our Lord and then the disaster that was our king. Even the Kingslayer stands with her! Sansa Stark is lost. She will never be of the North. No, just like her bastard of a brother was, she will be the _true_ end of the North if she is our queen! It’s high time a new family rules!” he shouted, his echoes ringing across the large hall until the room fell silent.

Wylis approached Robett, their noses almost touching as both men visibly shook. “You speak of treason, Robett.”

“And you would all bow before that _treasonous_ bitch!”

“When I was trapped in King’s Landing, I used to think about how different Northern men were from the monsters in the south. I wanted to believe it was just Tywin Lannister who killed my brother and mother, but I saw the truth when Ramsey ripped my dress and repeatedly raped me from behind. The truth was the knife he used to cut me when he grew bored of all that. No matter how much I screamed, not one of the Northern houses came to my aid or rallied against the Boltons in my father’s or brother’s memory. You all sat with only your fear to keep you company in your castles as they flayed your families and accepted an alliance with the Lannisters and the Freys. Saving myself has become a necessary venture for me to secure. So forgive me for working with people capable of helping me find out who was behind the attack on me in the Godswood under all of our noses.”

Slamming his fist on it, he leaned over and spat, “You dare call all the people we lost in your brother’s war cowards? My men and I will march back to Deepwood Motte tonight! Fuck the Starks!”

“What would Lady Glover say when you returned without the wheat burned in your stores?”

The wild lord froze, fisting his hand on the head table and straightening. “W-what?”

“That’s why you’re here. You lost almost eleven months’ worth of wheat in the fire because one of your tenants thought you should have been here at Winterfell for battle against the dead. You beheaded him, but whispers don’t often require a head in order to echo in the wind.”

“Lady Stark…” 

Sansa didn’t move or budge from her seat. Rather, she relaxed, fixing her features to fit the look of boredom. “Thank you, Lord Glover, for sharing your concerns. I value such open and honest feedback. You’ve made it rather easy for a future trial should I or any other noble House question your loyalty or if any future betrayals against House Stark arise.”

“W-what?”

“You’re confused...Let me make it easy for you to understand, then. Lord Glover, I am _not_ Ned, Robb, or Catelyn Stark. The North belongs to House Stark, to me. Our country went generations without playing the great game until Joffrey took my father’s head. Some now extinct Houses thought they could best my family to further theirs; others waited in silence and turned their backs on their oaths when called upon. However, the North has bred many great families of slow learners. The difference between me and you, specifically, is that I know how to play the game. I learned from the best by watching, studying them. When I am crowned your queen, the game will end here. It wasn’t ever supposed to spread so far north in the first place. But I feel compelled to warn you, so listen well. Rickon Stark was the last of my family to die. Your name will disappear along with the Boltons if you still feel inspired to play with me, Robett.”

When he reached over the table, three other lords nearby rushed to pull him away from their lady. “You’re right about one thing. You’re nothing like Ned or Catelyn! You might as well be Cersei or that vicious bastard brat of hers!”

“Are you mad?!” Lord Manderly shouted. Grabbing Robett by his collar, the older man reached for the hilt of his sword and bashed it against Glover’s head, knocking him out seconds before he nearly broke free from the other men’s hold. As the man fell to the ground, sharp gasps roared across the room. Wylis regarded the rest of the lords with a disappointed shrug. “Someone had to shut him up…” he said, turning to Lady Sansa. 

Rising from her seat, the lady parted her mouth to reply; however, the doors on the far side of the hall croaked open. Several pairs of footsteps from behind the lot of lords standing there inched around them. Between each man obscuring her view of them, four distinct bodies maneuvered until Sansa saw a flash of bright silver plaited hair, Jon’s signature dark half-knotted hair, and Ser Jorah’s wary, gloomy expression. Off in her periphery, she saw the glow of bright, pale garments. Soon after, she heard the familiar sound of Lord Royce’s armor as well as his loud disapproval as the young lord rushed into the great hall, tugging his arm out of his caretaker’s grip.

“The sea queen gets to be here, and I hear shouting, Royce. And why shouldn’t I?” Robin said, his echoey voice deafening the shuffling shoes scraping against the stone floor. He paused when Sansa met his dark gaze. A shy smile quirked the corners of his mouth up as he smoothed his straight, black hair with his palm. “My lady…” he quietly said. Bowing elegantly, he broke their gaze to survey the room. 

As he focused on Lord Glover’s body on the floor, the lady surveyed her cousin. A few years had tempered some of his features, and he’s finally grown into his large nose. On the surface, he appeared the picture of a gentle lord. However, as she openly stared at the distracted boy, tears stung her eyes. Broken pieces of her memory fused as his features shifted into Ramsay’s. The jaw wasn’t quite as structured. Robin’s eyes were dark, and his black hair was cut to the southern standards...not quite so unruly. His presence at Winterfell offered little advantage. Sansa was not ensnaring like Margaery Tyrell. She wasn’t resourceful like Shae. Most importantly, there were only two men in whom she trusted. Manufacturing her interest in him would be nearly impossible, so she couldn’t totally rely upon exploiting his naive feelings for her in this situation.

Especially because he reminded her so much of the husband she wished she could forget.

Robin asked Lord Royce, “Who’s she?”

“Lady Arya Stark, my lord…”

The breath in Sansa’s lungs stuttered as she gasped and turned back toward the other side of the hall, seeing Arya weave between Jon and Daenerys. Tears blotted her sight, but the lady rushed around the table, ignoring Lord Glover’s limp, unconscious body and grabbing her skirts to meet her sister halfway between both ends of the large room. 

“You call _that_ a lady?”

“My lord,” Yohn said with a distinct curse under his breath. “You would do well and remember your manners…”

Arya smiled, hauling the lady into her arms. Sansa pivoted on her feet, turning them so she could briefly look at Tyrion, the tears in her eyes obscuring his expression. She thought she saw a small grin, but she couldn’t be sure. Closing her eyes, Lady Stark chuckled softly, the air in her chest almost deflating when her younger sister tightened her hold on the lady. Both sisters pulled away, but Sansa kept her hand on Arya’s cheek, looking over her to inspect her condition. 

“How are you here?” Sansa asked.

Neither Arya nor Sansa spared any attention to anyone else. Rather, the darker eyes staring up at the lady shined with so much adventure and wonder. Arya pulled back from the lady with a large grin plastered to her lopsided expression. “The Hound and I intercepted a small Lannister host heading here. No more than two hundred men holed up near the Twins. One of them had this scroll,” Arya said, reaching into her sleeve for the rolled parchment and handing it to her sister, who quickly stuffed it into the hidden pocket in her cloak.

“Two people against a couple hundred? How did you manage to get it?”

Arya’s grin widened. “I’ve faced worse odds. I snuck into their camp and set fire to the bulk of their tents. Their food burned, their horses ran away, and most of them abandoned their orders to pursue the North in favor of finding something to fill their bellies. Daenerys’ forces dealt with the rest of the host the Hound and I evaded further up the King’s Road. We waited for her and Jon to make them aware of Cersei's new plans.” Her younger sister studied Sansa’s tense expression, her dark brows dipping as the smile curling her lips sagged. Swallowing, the younger Stark sister stepped closer to the lady, asking, “You already know about White Harbor. What’s happened?” 

“I’ll tell you all about it in the war room,” Sansa muttered, attention fixing on the dragon queen and Jon.

“Are you going to tell me who the fancy lad in the far corner next to Lord Royce is?”

Sansa glanced over her shoulder, seeing Robin almost clinging to his keeper amidst all the commotion. Sighing, the lady straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “Lord Robin Arryn of the Vale, our cousin.”

“He’s certainly...prettier than I’d ever picture him based on what little you’ve said about him. A lot less lanky, too,” Arya murmured loud enough for only her sister to coherently hear. “And older…” she continued, scrunching her brows as if she’d expected him to still be a child after all these years.

Jon’s heavy footsteps neared his sisters, who stepped apart enough to include him in their vicinity. The three of them stood almost shoulder to shoulder in a triangle, effectively forgetting the rest of the world for a moment. The tired man cupped his hand on Sansa’s shoulder as she joined her hands behind her back and offered him a small smile in return. After a moment, he wrapped his arms around her, and it was exactly like it had been when they’d first reunited. He quickly pulled away from her, seeing Lord Glover on the floor by the head table. “What’s happened? Are you alright, Sansa?”

“I’m fine, Jon. Everything is under control. We need to speak about White Harbor.”

Jon’s features sank even further, turning to look back at Daenerys. Making room for her in their private circle, the dragon queen locked her attention on the Lady of Winterfell, a nervous but warm smirk brightening her tanned features. “Lady Stark, I wish we were here under different circumstances.”

Sansa hesitantly nodded once, a diplomatic smile spreading over her lips as she straightened her posture. “Cersei sent us a raven earlier today about White Harbor. We should discuss this immediately. I’ve had the war room prepared for us, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, but I must see to private business before we can begin. It will not be too long. I shall send Jorah there shortly.”

Looking back to Wylis, Sansa lifted her chin as he nodded. “Alright, you stubborn oafs, we’ll get Lord Glover to a holding cell for the night and deal with this matter sometime later." When the rest of the lords began to stand and file out of the great hall, the lady nodded her head and mouthed a quick thank you. The older man smirked hesitantly and nodded back to her before overseeing Lord Glover’s unconscious body and carrying him out.

“Yara, I’m surprised _you’re_ here. Theon told me you were taking back the Iron Islands in my name when he first arrived…” Daenerys said, her features tense.

The sea queen shifted from one foot to another, eventually stepping in front of her brother. “And I did, Your Grace. However, I had to come to make sure my baby brother was really alive.”

“Couldn’t you have just sent a raven?”

“I had to see him for myself, Your Grace. I had to make sure he was still himself after returning here.”

“I see,” Daenerys replied, turning to look at Jon and then to Jorah. “Well, I am thankful for all the help we have in the battle to come.”

“We’ll wait for you in the war council room, Your Grace,” Sansa said, looking to Ser Brienne, Jaime, and Podrick. The pale knight stepped away from the hearth behind the head table, but she did not move over to Sansa like she normally would. Instead, she remained rather close to the man she loved, eyes narrowed and posture tense, like she was ready to strike him down should he try to do anything. Jaime kept his focus on Sansa, though he rolled his eye when Brienne got closer to him. He no longer had his chains on, much to the disapproval of her knight. So, instead, the brutish woman had taken it upon herself to act like his chains for the night. 

Pod, however, walked toward Tyrion with an uneasy grin directed toward Lady Stark. The lady nodded to him, her gaze shifting to the brooding man in the far corner. Bronn had, for now, agreed to work with her, citing he’d had nowhere else to go. The inns and villages along the King’s Road had each been vacated when the Northerners all fled to Winterfell. Up until this point in the evening, he’d remained rather quiet. Now, he stepped closer to Pod with a cynical chuckle. 

Enough of her attention had been stolen while she’d surveyed the group, so the Lady forced her shoulders to relax as she turned to face Daenerys. “We haven’t had much time to prepare in the way of strategy, though.”

“I suppose not, given all of the bickering amongst your Northern lords, Lady Sansa. I must admit...I am pleased to hear no one is calling you Your Grace. Change of heart since we last spoke?” the dragon queen asked, the single brow lifting indicating she did not expect a reply. 

Sansa offered a polite, diplomatic smirk. “Now is _not_ the time to fight amongst ourselves, Your Grace.”

“That sounds rather familiar, my lady. Perhaps something my Hand might say. Spending time with him, I see. I’ll be pleased to hear about his recovery later on tonight.” Although a thinly veiled threat burrowed in her words, the dragon queen’s voice, expression, and posture remained rather pleasant and relaxed.

Jon stepped closer to his lover and moved his mouth to her ear, though his whisper was loud enough for her to make out what he was saying. “Daenerys, we’re not here for this. It’s not good…”

Daenerys gasped and placed a single finger on his lips until she gracefully fluttered her hand to stroke his cheek tenderly. Nodding, the foreign queen fought and lost a battle with the smile growing in and brightening her features. Before the silver-haired woman had a chance to catch it, Lady Stark’s eyes narrowed as she regarded both of them. Turning back to Sansa, the mother of dragons swallowed, nodding once. “Apologies, Lady Stark. It was a tiresome journey back here. Let us speak of only Cersei tonight. The sooner we do, the sooner we can all get some rest...”

“Agreed, but since we had little time to prepare for your return, I’m afraid the quarters you previously stayed in have since been repurposed for Lord Tyrion and his recovery. Maester Wolkan insisted on a less drafty accommodation to help him rest easier and ideally heal quicker.”

Before Daenerys could reply, Jon wrapped an arm over her shoulders and grabbed one of her wrists. He smiled tensely just as Sansa froze her curious features. When they’d left, Jon had threatened her life. Yet, now, he held onto her awkwardly. Their touch didn’t seem natural, more necessary than anything else. “We will share my quarters.”

“We’ll trade for a while, Jon. Your room is too small for the likes of a queen,” Arya said. “Besides, I’m likely going to be sharing Sansa’s room. We can’t be too careful. Cersei may have planned another attack.”

“That won’t be necessary, Arya. Theon has kept a constant watch over me since then.”

Her sister drew her head back, flashing her gaze between Sansa and the Ironborn standing over by the head table by his sister. Lifting her brow, she narrowed her eyes and leaned into the lady. “I don’t know the rules for eunuchs, Sansa… But is that entirely...proper?” Arya whispered, for once thoughtful of those in hearing range.

Sansa held her breath for a second, swallowing down the thick ball of impatience quickly rushing up her throat. Sighing, the lady shook her head with a neutral smirk. “One look at me will tell you I haven’t slept much lately.”

“He’s staying with you in your room?” Jon asked, though his voice was mostly drowned out by a higher-pitched, screeching string of the same words from behind them. Checking over her shoulders, Sansa saw that Robin was still within the great hall. Just as he tried to walk toward her, Lord Royce caught him by his shoulder, holding him back. The lady turned back to view her brother. He stepped closer to her, a scowl forming on his brooding expression. “Well?”

“Cersei sails for the North, and all you want to discuss is my reputation and what is proper? Aren’t you yet bored with this conversation?”

“I agree, Jon,” Daenerys spoke, moving around her brother to regain her place in their circle. “We don’t have time to waste.”

Sansa shifted her attention back to the dragon queen and offered her a neutral smile. “I shall wait with my advisors in the war council room,” she said, quickly offering a rushed curtsey before turning her back to them to walk back toward the head table. Theon left his sister’s side to rejoin Sansa. Just when she reached Brienne and Jaime, she heard the queen clear her throat. 

“But Jaime will not be joining us,” the dragon queen abruptly said.

Smirking, the lady looked over her shoulder, casting her undivided attention to the queen. “Jaime fought with us just weeks ago, Your Grace. And he has agreed to help us with the war to come,” she replied. “Podrick, please wheel Lord Tyrion and escort Lord Varys back to our guest.” The squire followed her exact instruction. 

“Forgive me for my skepticism, Lady Sansa. He murdered my father, and since we know that it was Cersei who plotted your attack, I’m starting to think that he had something to do with arranging it. Brienne hasn’t taken her eyes off of him since we first entered. Something happened while we were gone, didn’t it?” Daenerys pressed, stepping toward the lady. “Tell me,” she commanded, mimicking Lady Stark’s signature mannerisms and lifting her chin as her eyes narrowed.

“Your Grace, Jaime tried escaping a few days ago. No one was hurt. And I happen to know that he had nothing to do with the attack.”

“And how is that?”

Tyrion’s rolling chair squealed closer to the group as two pairs of footsteps followed. Varys cleared his throat. “Your Grace, just this evening my little birds located three possible accomplices related to Lady Stark’s attack.”

Sansa glanced back at the Spider, watching him as he took his place by Daenerys. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Varys folded his arms in his sleeves and lowered his head, ever so slightly narrowing one of his eyelids. “My lady, more important matters occupied your time. What’s important is that we’ve got them, all just children, in our custody. I will arrange for further questioning beginning tomorrow if my queen permits me.”

“No,” Sansa replied.

The Spider tensed as Daenerys drew her head back. “Excuse me? Lady Sansa, may I remind you that Lord Varys is _my_ advisor. He is to only follow _my_ commands.”

“I meant that I will question them personally,” Lady Stark clarified, her gaze switching back to Varys. “You may join me...if your queen commands you to do so first, of course.”

“My lady,” Varys began, hesitantly switching his gaze between his queen and the Red Wolf. “I’m sure you have other obligations to see to. I assure you I will not leave a stone unturned.”

“Arya?”

“Yes, Sansa?”

“Find and tell Lord Manderly what’s happened. Have him send a few of his men to stand watch outside of the cell. Instruct him to ensure they know that _no one_ except you or me will enter or leave until I change my mind. Come find me in the war council room when you’re finished.” Without a question or word, her sister left her side and fled the hall. 

Daenerys closed the gap between her and the lady, grabbing her wrist tightly. Sansa wanted nothing more than to toss the queen across the room. If it were physically possible, perhaps she might have actually done it. The shape of the petite queen’s hand fused with the unforgettable, unforgivable grasp of her dead husband; however, Sansa did her best to remain as neutral in her expression as possible. Never had the lack of sleep affected her so much as it did now. Lady Stark dropped her gaze down to the dragon queen’s gloved hand for a second before returning her attention back on those violet hues. As she did so, Daenerys’ forehead scrunched as her brows fidgeted against her otherwise passive features. In some small way, Sansa made Daenerys nervous. The queen’s tiny gulp indicated as much. 

The realization instantly made the lady lift her chin and her spine harden like steel. No matter how many dragons this woman had or how many men fell at her feet, the lady would always know the secret that could burn the legacy she so desperately clung to down to the ground. However, this foreign queen’s legacy wasn’t the only still alive and burning with a fire hotter than dragon’s fire. Tyrion wanted peace for Westeros. And Sansa had always determined she would work to secure it for him: even if she didn’t quite hold peace outside of the North as high a priority or need. So, the queen needed to, at the very least, believe they could be allies. In order for that to occur, Sansa had to show the woman she had weaknesses. Just like everyone else. If it meant making Tyrion happy, she would do and go through quite a lot to ensure that happened. In time, they eventually would have some sort of understanding. But too much stood in the way of much of any common ground.

“Daenerys, I’ve had less than fifteen hours’ sleep in the past week or so. We can speak about why and our differences in circles later. Right now, our mutual enemy sails North. Your advisors have not only been invaluable in uncovering the truth of the attack; they’ve also brought to light some of the mistakes I’ve made since you arrived here at Winterfell. I’ve learned over the years that no one can protect me. Nobody can truly protect anyone anymore. My brother never wrote to me about bending the knee to you. He just did it without considering the consequences,” Sansa said.

The dragon queen withdrew her hand from the lady and drew her head back as she searched Sansa’s expression. The hint of fear burrowed in her tan features shifted, her eyes softening just as they surveyed the darkness under Lady Stark’s pale gaze. Tense mouth relaxing, Daenerys swallowed again and nodded. “I’m sorry to see that you’re unwell, Lady Sansa. Of course, you’re right. We shall have many decades to resolve those consequences and our differences.”

Nodding with a falsified, diplomatic smirk, Sansa said, “I’ve lost so much, Your Grace, that I’ve become quite protective of what I have left. Albeit most of my hesitation _was_ justified...at least from _my_ prospective, the way we received you is inexcusable. No matter what happened, I was the Lady of Winterfell. I will not make that mistake twice. You and yours are welcome here in the North.”

Daenerys bought the manufactured, vulnerable expression fixed on the lady’s face as genuine. The foreign queen had never looked more relaxed than she did now around the lady. Of course, a certain hint of unease dwelled beneath the surface. Her attention focused too much on Sansa to believe otherwise. “We shall meet you up in the war council room shortly, Lady Stark. We have much to discuss. It would please me if you would allow Tyrion to join you. I don’t want to disrupt his healing any more than what is necessary. I’m sure the chair helps ease some of the strain. I will have to personally thank the maester. Varys, however, will come with me for now. Jorah will be up there shortly while Jon and I get setting back in.”

“Take your time, Your Grace.”

Jon moved to his sister, reaching for her cheek and kissing her forehead as he always did. As he pulled back away from her, he stroked his thumb on her face and scrunched his forehead up. “You will tell me what this is about. If not tonight, in the morning, then.”

Sansa simply nodded, watching as he and Daenerys slipped between the small group. Jorah followed close at his queen’s heels, while Varys kept his distance. When their backs were turned to Sansa, the Spider glanced between the lady and Tyrion. Perhaps if she’d had more sleep, she would have known what that meant.


	14. Fear of the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There seems to have been a bug around the last update (chapter 13), so double-check you read that chapter before proceeding with this chapter! Comment with your thoughts! I'd love to catch up and gush about our favorite GOT ship!

* * *

**Chapter 14**

_Winterfell_

Sansa

* * *

“Who’s the old man?” Arya loudly asked as she regarded Ser Bronn from Lady Stark’s corner of the war room. The Stark sisters occupied two chairs by the raging fire. Sansa stitched a crude design of their House’s sigil on a small piece of dark fabric procured from her rather limited stash. The lady rolled her eyes, choosing to focus on her work rather than to indulge Arya’s endless fleet of questions. “And how does he know Tyrion?” her sister quickly added, making Sansa grit her teeth and shoulders tense.

“I’m not _that_ old, girl,” the sellsword grumbled closeby. Bronn sat near the head of the table closest to Lady Stark, his feet crossed at the heels of his boots on the war table. Every so often, he drifted his gaze over to Jorah, who stood quietly by the other end of the long table. Sighing, the man groaned something unintelligible, once again locking his attention to both of the Lannister brothers. Using the edge of his dagger, the man picked at his nails while they all waited. “And we were friends when he paid me.”

“We paid you,” Jaime interrupted. He slouched in the chair he occupied by Ser Brienne, who stood watch close by, and rubbed the cheek underneath the leather eye patch. 

Bronn chuckled, though his features darkened. The promise of violence rested at the surface of his dangerous expression. “Until the damned dragon queen swooped down and killed me damn horse.”

“We still paid you.”

“If you were _real_ friends, why would payment be required at all? I thought most people down south kissed the asses of each Lannister simply for the privilege and possibility of good favor,” Arya argued, crossing her arms over her chest. The tilt of her head signaled her rather deep investment of interest in this subject. The bottom of her boots scraped against the floor as she leaned forward in her chair toward the man. “What happened?”

Bronn laughed in his chair, not budging or turning around. Instead, he simply shook his head and sighed again. “I’m a sellsword, and I’m not paid to chat, Little Stark. Your sister’s paying me to cutthroats at her whim and fancy. That’s how it’s always been—back before the Lannisters went and fucked up the whole arrangement. Now, unless the great Lady Stark needs me to cut either Lannister twat’s neck, I’m going to sit here and finish cleaning me damned nails.”

“It’s comforting to know that some things never change,” Tyrion muttered, earning a warning glare from the sellsword. Lowering his chin, the Hand narrowed his eyes and groaned. “Sorry...” As Bronn shifted his attention back to cleaning his nails, Tyrion placed a hand over his mouth, scratching the stubble along his bottom lip as he shared a curious look Pod. The dwarf leaned his head back against his rolling chair and grimaced, scratching at his solid black tunic. The faithful squire batted his hands away. “I can’t wait until I’m more mobile. I’m not much in the way of fighting, but I have a number of new ideas for killing a man I’d love to test on you, Pod.”

“My lord, the maester mentioned that you shouldn’t scratch at it. It will worsen your infection.”

Sansa flicked her gaze over to Jorah, who waited silently for his queen. Watching the group intently, the older man paid acute attention to his Lord Hand whilst she studied him for a fraction of a second. The man appeared as if he wanted to ask something, but he remained ever silent. Quickly diverting her stare back to her work, the lady cleared her throat. Tyrion was certainly acting the part of a disgruntled, inflicted patient. He’d consistently reached for the two deepest lashes on his chest for the better part of the last half hour, and each time, Podrick batted his hands away from the wounds. Sometimes, when he took an especially deep breath, he’d cringe and curse quietly. 

“Robin stared at your mouth while you spoke down in the great hall. Did you notice that? Why exactly is he here?” her sister asked quickly. “Did he run out of tits to suckle in the Vale?” she quickly added, earning a giddy chuckle from the older sellsword.

Freezing her hands so as not to poke herself with her needle, Lady Stark took in a low, deep breath, waiting for her frazzled nerves to calm down. Fixing her features before she glanced up to meet her sister’s inquisitive gaze, the lady offered her a polite, tense smile, not bothering to correct her sister’s crude insult regarding their cousin. “I suppose he’s here to make an offer for marriage, Arya.”

“To whom? You?” Arya burst into a fit of laughter, moving forward and backward until she placed her hand on her stomach. Cupping her mouth with her hand, the lady’s sister shook her head and almost snorted. The noise quickly turned into a cheery giggle that dragged on for a bit longer than Sansa thought was appropriate. Then again, Arya had never been one for employing any tact people of their position ought to. “That’s possibly the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in a while…”

“Don’t be cruel. He’s family.”

“ _That’s_ his only problem? He’s not even a man! That boy is a child. Beyond that, what about what you’ve told me about him? No, you can’t marry him. You need at least a man who would know what to do with you. I think you’d have better odds shooting an arrow at a target than he will ever know how to get his prick up for too long.”

Sighing, Sansa blocked out the crude mental image waging war in her head: flashes of their aunt _feeding_ her son at her breast mixed with the sharp pinch of Ramsay shoving himself inside of her. Biting the inside of her cheek, the lady swallowed and narrowed her eyes as she readjusted in her chair, releasing the stinging breath she’d involuntarily held. Shaking her head, the lady struggled to reply. Eventually, she retorted, “He’s lost quite a lot in the last few years. You should empathize with his situation better than most considering all of us were orphaned, too…”

“Wait...you’re not seriously considering a match with him, are you?”

“I’m not considering anything at the moment. Until queen Daenerys has the iron throne, none of us should focus on much else.”

Arya’s breath caught, the sound so quiet that Sansa barely heard it to begin with. Narrowing her eyes a bit, the girl shook her head. The lady saw her sister’s eyes harden the same way they did when they first conspired their plan against Littlefinger. Before too much time passed, Arya smiled and nodded. “Of course, you’re right,” she replied. Leaning back in her chair, the assassin bit her lower lip, fidgeting with her hands a bit. “Listen, sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“It’s alright, Arya.” 

The fire shortly became the only noise disturbing the glorious silence. Snapping five times, Lady Stark sighed quietly and returned to the crude embroidery presently occupying her mind. It wasn’t even comparable to her usual work. There were several spots without the white string filling it in. The direction of the string also seemed rather inconsistent, too. If the septa were here, she’d be chastised for sure. Moving her lips to one side, the lady sighed. This badge wasn’t permanent. It would only act as a temporary way for the Northmen to recognize Bronn as someone under her employ. It seemed rather necessary given the fight that broke out several nights before. But honestly, Lady Stark had only needed something to keep her hands busy while the dragon queen took her time before arriving at the war room. 

The hour was late, and although she was tired, Sansa couldn’t say she was thrilled about the prospect of bedtime. Especially with Daenerys in such close proximity. The vulnerability was something Sansa no longer afforded to others. Well, to _most_ people. Beyond that, neither Jon nor Arya knew about the screaming. They’d heard her crying herself to sleep sometimes, but they were ignorant to the extent of how bad it truly was. It had mostly started _after_ the night Ramsey died, slowly building like an avalanche as the devastation, horrors, and imagination tangled into a rabid beast that made the lady lose all control. Sansa and Maester Wolkan had somehow kept it all hidden away from everyone, and it hadn’t been easy. 

Shoving the sharp needle through the thick, small leather piece, the lady reached around and tugged the stitch through, fumbling a little bit with the pointed object whilst a distant echo of her own scream crescendoed louder and louder across her mind. The image of the Weirwood tree came into view as reality fell away for only a second. The mostly full vial in one of her trembling, bare hands glimmered under the full moon’s lights overhead. The clouds that night had been almost nonexistent. Earlier than morning, she’d plucked a small dagger one of Lord Cerwyn’s bannermen on one of the long tables in the great hall. Its sharp blade reflected the perfectly clear moonlight as it rested in her jittery hand. Sansa swore she could feel the tears warming her cheeks in thick streaks again. From somewhere nearby in the castle, a door slammed closed, pulling her out from the only moment Lady Stark actively shut out of her memory. Absently gripping her stomach, the lady sucked in a sharp breath as she fiddled with the needle until it was safely entangled in her grasp again.

Once, Littlefinger had questioned her about Winterfell’s constant low supply of Nightshade; however, a small matter between two of the arriving Northern bannermen popped up that required her immediate attention. And he’d never once brought up the subject again. 

A dangerous revelation set in until each of her nerves pulsed painfully across each limb of her body. The tips of her fingers buzzed, tingling as the feel of the leather and needle fell away momentarily. Sansa Stark was _so_ tired. The last time she’d gone this long without proper sleep was when Brienne and Podrick escorted her to Castle Black. In her present condition, she wasn’t fit to contend with Daenerys or Cersei individually. Dealing with them all at once suffocated her. A hand on her knee tore her from her frenzied thoughts. For a moment, she pictured the overwhelming warmth of Tyrion’s touch; however, when she lifted her gaze, she saw it was only Arya. The warmth bled from her body as quickly as most of the color in the war room muted. 

_Tyrion_. 

It was no longer just her life at stake. Should she fail at any little thing, he would likely go down with her and her family. Sansa clamped her jaw until her teeth ground together. She’d been able to go this long without looking over to him. Just one more hour, she chanted with an artificial smirk lifting at the corner of her small mouth. The weight of the diplomatic smile her sister hated so much made her heart fall to the floor. 

Arya returned it, but the warmth didn’t quite reach her darker gaze. The two sisters were opposites in almost every way imaginable. Yet they shared small moments like these where they could speak to one another without words. Neither of them was fluent in the other’s nonverbal language, but they could still translate broken pieces to comprehend the highlights. Except that her sister didn’t quite grasp the matter of _when_ to stop pushing the lady. That, Sansa feared, would always be lost somewhere in the translation between them. Although her intentions were good, their execution required more practice and time than either of them ever had. Lady Stark safely speculated that her younger sister was only trying to help keep her mind occupied. Even though Sansa knew more questions would come, the lady’s usual rations of control were rather flimsy at best. The impatience looming all around her body electrified her until it almost burned her. All she wanted to do was finish the wolf sigil in peace until the dragon queen graced the room with her insufferable presence.

“Why is Yara Greyjoy here? Also, why does Brienne look like someone put a crab in her armor?” Arya asked, not bothering to lower her voice.

“ _Arya!_ ” Sansa hissed, the noise sounding more like the signature whine from their childhood. The lady cringed when the higher-pitched emphasis on both syllables of her wretched sister’s name tickled and vibrated at the center of her throat. The whole room looked at her as she rolled her eyes and dropped her hands to her lap. It was exactly like the days where her father would do his best to scold the brat that was her sister then. Except now, the lady didn’t search around the room for her mother. Catelyn Stark wasn’t around to save her anymore. Tired, unnerved, and subdued for the first time in years, Sansa cleared her throat and lifted her chin to stare at her sister. “Will you _please_ shut up?”

“Gods, I _hate_ my name when you say it that way! You sound exactly like Gendry whinging while we fuck…”

A rush of complaints tongue-tied Lady Stark into silence. Rushing to stand, Sansa caught her breath and moved toward Ser Bronn’s cloak. The sellsword’s head drew back as he pivoted in the chair to check over his shoulder at Arya. His eyes and mouth lit up so bright that the others in the room joined in. Even Jorah lowly chuckled before he scratched the grin away. Rather abruptly, Bronn shouted, “Ow, fuck me!” Bringing his index finger to his lips, the sellsword sucked on it until he pulled it out to inspect it. Grumbling something else foul, he relaxed back in his chair, turning back to how he’d been before the scandalous revelation. “This might be a pleasant partnership after all, Lady Stark,” he mumbled, getting back to cleaning his nails. “At the very least, an entertaining one…”

“Why _have_ you agreed to work for Lady Stark? I can’t imagine she has much to offer you,” Jaime said, scratching the back of his head as he studied the sellsword for a moment.

Shrugging, the older man tilted his head, replying, “She promised more later on. At least Podrick insisted there would be.”

“I’ve never known you to accept less than your previous patron.”

“Have you stepped foot outside? Do you know how many nights I had to sleep in the cold snow on me way up here? I’ve got nowhere else to go and no way to get there. Me horse died along the way. Besides, I trust Podrick more than I’ll ever trust any a’ you Lannisters. And the town outside has a brothel. Winterfell is much more hospitable than the King’s Road right now.”

Jaime looked over to his brother, who simply rolled his eyes and shrugged. Eventually, the southern knight said, “Fair enough.”

Clutching the thin, dirty fabric of Bronn’s cloak discarded on the war table by his feet, Sansa inspected both shoulders. Narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips, she surveyed all of her options until she settled on a spot to the right. Working one last stitch through the leather patch, the lady poked the needle through the old cloak, stitching along the outside shape of it until she looped back up to the top one. Sinking the sharp object through both layers, Lady Stark flipped the cloak’s shoulder inside out, bringing it to her mouth. With the amount of string she still had left, she gauged how much she’d need to secure a knot or two and pulled it tight, clipping the thick string with her teeth. “It’s not my best work, but it’ll have to do for now, Ser Bronn.”

The sellsword took back his cloak when the lady offered it to him, raising both brows and staring up at her like she’d grown a third arm or something. Somehow, he managed to look impressed. “Quick hands, my lady. I’m no expert on your sigil, but that looks damn near identical to the flowy banners draping your castle outside.”

“No, this stitch is far too simple to capture the extraordinary detail of the direwolf. There wasn’t enough string left on the spool I grabbed to do the proper technique, so I settled on a crossing maneuver I learned back in King’s Landing to help differentiate the edges and finer details in a way that maximizes my resources...or a lack thereof in this case. It’s better suited for lions...or rather _other_ sigils; however, it’s one of the most efficient stitches I’ve learned in a pinch, so I improvised. It’s acceptable at best,” Sansa explained, finally flashing her gaze to Bronn. 

Somewhere in the time she’d spoken, a bigger smile than usual stretched her lips, though it quickly fell the longer she surveyed the sellsword’s features. Almost immediately, she noticed that his eyes looked unfocused, glazed over. His mouth hung open like he meant to say something to shut her up. But he didn’t. He just stood there gaping down at her like she was the simplest girl in the world. It was the same look everyone save perhaps her mother used to regard her when she spoke about all the nonsense featured in her books. Embroidery and sewing were the only two things that helped drown out all of the calamity surrounding her over the years. It always felt so satisfying to create a result of something more tangible than reuniting with her family or securing Northern independence. It was also a way to keep a part of her childhood with her and, in turn, her family. With all the eyes in the capital on her, Sansa could hardly resort to the familiar stitches her mother taught her. She’d needed to adapt to stay invisible. Unnoticed by all save Petyr.

If anyone had caught her embroidering anything with traitor’s techniques, the scared girl imagined all sorts of terrible ways they would employ to hurt her. Yet needlework had also been the only way she could safely rebel against the Lannisters. Cooped up in her room at night, she would sometimes embroider the direwolf on a stray piece of fabric, mostly from napkins she swiped at dinner on occasion. For a few moments at the capital, a real smile bloomed on her lips as she allowed herself to love the family she believed would save her. One day. And then she’d toss her work into the fire and slip back into the suffocating void of being the traitor’s daughter in a den of lions. No one ever came for her. They never saved her. Not until a mockingbird with a pretty song gracefully flitted around her long enough for her to start paying more attention.

Curling a small section of hair around the curve of her ear, the lady checked around the room. Ser Brienne smiled politely, though her expression was tense and a little sad. Even though they would never remotely be similar, the knight always seemed rather eager to encourage her lady. Intentionally passing over Tyrion, the lady next focused on his brother. Jaime dropped his brows and scratched the back of his head. Theon offered her a gentle smile, too. Yara rubbed her face and rolled her eyes. And Arya was just out of view, but the lady heard her distinct groan. The tight trace of tears itched at her eyes, but Sansa refused to let them shine under the firelight of the torches and lanterns placed throughout the room. This plan required a touch of vulnerability; however, the lady found it rather difficult to separate the show for which she’d memorized all the lines from the unexpected challenges poised further down her path. The fire snapped suddenly, so Lady Stark shook her head and placed her palm along her forehead, her cool touch calming the imaginary heat on her skin.

Holding onto the breath she drew for a second longer than she ought to, the lady sighed. “You don’t care about all that, though. Well, it’s finished. Now the Northmen theoretically won’t try to harm you.”

“Your Northmen don’t worry me too much, Lady Stark.”

“I...suppose that’s all for now.”

Bronn’s features twitched as he stood up and threw his cloak back on. “As much as I enjoy taking your coin, sitting in your cold dungeon damn near froze my balls off. Isn’t there something I could be doing?”

Searching his stare, Lady Stark shook her head and shrugged a little. “You could...go check on the brothel. We’ve had problems with some of my men taking advantage of the women there.”

Bronn frowned. “You want me to go room to room or something? What exactly would I be doing once I get there?”

“You’re not to _kill_ anyone. I just want my bannermen to see you down there, to know you’re around should they get any other bright ideas. Bring in anyone causing trouble, so they can be properly dealt with per my judgment.”

“What if I get there, and there’s no sign of trouble?”

Sansa drew her head back and narrowed her eyes. “You’re asking _me_ of all people how someone could pass the time in a brothel?”

“So, you’re saying you’re paying _me_ to fuck tonight while I wait for trouble?”

“Are you going to keep wasting my time by asking these rather redundant questions?”

Shrugging, Bronn lifted one of his brows and tilted his head to the side. “Alright,” he said as he strode toward the door and left them.

Flipping her hand so that the back of it cooled her right cheek, Lady Sansa sighed and gripped her stomach, her fingers inching for the chain that fell between the curve of her small breasts. Lowering her hand from her face to the tabletop, the lady lifted her chin as she focused on White Harbor on the large map.

“Are you alright, Sansa?” Arya asked, now much closer to Sansa than before.

Swallowing, Lady Stark narrowed her eyes and straightened her spine. “I’m just tired,” she answered, squirming when Arya’s hand pressed on the back of her left shoulder.

“No one is going to touch you while I am here,” her sister promised. The longer the sisters glanced at each other, the more Arya’s eyes softened. “And I’m here now, Sansa. I’m not leaving you again. Especially not after your...attack...”

“I’ve endured much worse than that Dothraki mongrel, Arya. I’ve lost very little sleep on that account.”

“Then what is it?” Arya asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The assassin knew Sansa couldn’t very well detail the real reasons. Not with Jorah, Jaime, and Yara in the room, listening rather intently.

Shaking her head, Sansa offered her sister a gentle smile. “I think it’s best we wait for Jon and queen Daenerys to get here.”

The door opened, revealing Varys. Sansa watched him as he took his place next to Jorah, not paying the lady much mind. Instead, he shared a curious glance with Tyrion. Folding his arms together at his chest and stuffing his hands inside of his large sleeves, the Spider said, “Our queen will arrive shortly.”

Tapping his palms against the armrests on his rolling chair, Tyrion nodded once. “Pod, would you please be so kind as to move me over there?” The squire did as he was instructed; however, he walked back to where he’d been before over by Brienne. The dwarf cleared his throat, muttering his thanks while sneaking in a quick, dramatic, and devious scratch at his chest. He gritted his teeth as his fist balled. 

Ser Brienne rolled her eyes, watching Tyrion as he groaned and cursed under his breath. “Lord Tyrion, you would not be in so much pain if you could learn a bit more of self-discipline.”

“Ser Brienne, I _promise_ you do not want to make my list, too.”

Sansa shifted her focus to the silent Jorah, who stared at the door expectantly. Dropping her gaze to the left side of his garb, she saw no sign of the Hand’s badge he’d left here wearing a couple of weeks ago. Narrowing her eyes, the lady forced herself to release the breath she unconsciously held as she heard more pairs of footsteps from beyond the room. Rather quickly, Maester Wolkan emerged before Daenerys and her brother. Jon’s attention immediately gravitated to Lady Stark, and he rushed over to her, enveloping her in his strong arms. 

“The maester told us about Cersei’s raven…” he muttered against her ear. Pulling back, he inspected her, dragging his gaze slowly from her boots to the top of her head. Cupping her face, he guided her forehead to his lips. “I’m so sorry, Sansa. Littlefinger plotted with Cersei in some way?” he asked, waiting until his sister indicated as much with her signature almost undetectable nod. Gritting his teeth, he brought her in again for a second hug. “I’d kill him myself all over again if I had the chance.”

Sansa glanced over to Daenerys, stepping away from her brother to curtsey before the dragon queen. “Your Grace,” she said, joining her hands at her front and fidgeting with the waving chain at her belly slightly. 

The subject for whom most of her carefully constructed vulnerability was reserved switched her stare between Jon and the lady, a gradual smirk forming just before her nod. “Lady Stark,” Daenerys replied, glancing back to Jon expectantly.

Jon turned Sansa toward him, and he cupped her cheek again. His brows dipped down toward his nose as he drew his head back. “You look like hell, Sansa. This can’t be from the raven. It only arrived here today. What’s happened?”

So, Daenerys had thoroughly questioned Wolkan while the lot of them waited here. Swallowing, a gentle smile spread her lips a bit wider than normal. Gently brushing a strand of her copper hair around the shape of her ear, Sansa ominously replied, “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Maester Wolkan said you read the scrolls aloud. However, you did not give them back to him for safekeeping. I assume they are in your possession,” the dragon queen said, her voice uncharacteristically warmer than before she’d left. 

“I took them to privately study Littlefinger’s letter to Cersei.”

“You think he’s hidden something in it?” the silver-haired queen asked, her voice gentle and posture relaxed. 

“I _know_ he did. But for whom the message is remains to be seen.”

“Arya told me you knew him well…”

“Petyr...loved me more than he loved my mother. Sometimes, I think I’m the only person alive who knew him at all. For a while after taking me from King’s Landing, he was the only person who’d fooled me enough into believing he could protect me, but it was only another lie. Despite everything, the only thing real about him was his feelings for me. I _do_ know that,” Sansa said, lowering her hand to rest on the table. Slowly, she rounded the left side of it, passing the Greyjoys to join the dragon queen at the opposite end to the east of Dorne. If Daenerys was to believe she was her ally, Sansa had to stand with the dragon queen. It’s what the man in question would do. Glancing over the map, the lady stopped and locked her gaze with the violet stare near Tyrion. Footsteps eventually sounded from where she stood, and Jon rejoined his queen.

“Tyrion once told me that a ruler that kills those devoted to her is not a ruler that inspires devotion,” Daenerys spoke, her eyes flickering down to her presumed Hand for a moment. He met her gaze with a soft grin, though Sansa accounted for a well-hidden twitch of one of his hands. However, without his beard, he couldn’t conceal his hard swallow. When she glanced away, he visibly relaxed. “Would you say Littlefinger was a man devoted to you?”

“I suppose in only a way that suited his pursuit of what he wanted.”

“And what was it that he wanted?”

“Everything, Your Grace.”

“Everything?”

“It doesn’t matter what we want. Once we get it, we want something else,” Lady Stark said, repeating more words she doubted very much she’d ever forget. Trailing her fingers along the Narrow Sea, she stifled the need to roll her eyes. “Before he married my aunt, Lysa Arryn, he showed me a boat he’d recently acquired. By the end of that conversation, one where he offered me the chance to take me away from the capital, he said he wanted twelve more. And _that_ was the kind of man he was, Your Grace.”

Sharing a quick glance with Jon, the dragon queen joined her hands in front of her until she flattened them low on her belly. Brows slightly dipping down, the foreign queen regarded the lady. Her brother cleared his throat and quickly cast his attention back to the lady. “What happened with Lord Glover? I thought he was set on staying at Deepwood Motte?”

The swift change in subject almost gave Sansa whiplash; nevertheless, she parted her lips as she pieced together a quick response in her mind. “I summoned him here. He opened his mouth and, as we all could expect, insulted our House and Queen Daenerys. Now he has time to...reconsider his opinions in a dark, cold cell for a night.”

“Before we came into the great hall, Sansa, we overheard you mention a fire at his castle,” Jon said, hesitantly walking around his queen to close the distance between them. Eyes narrowing as he searched his sister’s features, her brother continued, saying, “Tell me you had no part in causing that.”

Lifting her chin, Sansa let go of her chain and joined her hands behind her back. The answer was already realized in his mind; that much was clear by the quick twitch of his thinned eyes. He just didn’t want it to be true. Biting her lip, the lady did not succumb to the challenge in her brother’s posture. There was little point in hiding the truth. Perhaps the queen would grow a little more suspicious of the warden of the North; however, Sansa sensed she’d practically already traversed ground zero of any distrust in the foreign queen. Sighing, she shook her head, monotonously repeating, “I had no part in causing the fire, Jon.”

“Do not _lie_ to me, Sansa!”

“You asked me to say that, and I acquiesced. So, it’s not exactly a lie.”

Jon closed the small gap between them, cupping both sides of her face in his hands as he desperately stared up at her, his gaze bouncing all around her cold expression. “Sansa, for _once_ spare me of your sarcasm! Since before the day you all crowned me king in the North, I have fought each day to _save_ lives!” he shouted. His chin trembled as his mouth hung open. Those dark-hued eyes that always made her feel a hint of safety widened as the most important question formed at the tip of his tongue. “When did you have the time to arrange it?”

“The night when I asked you if you loved her...when I told you of his raven.”

A tremor shook Jon’s body, and he snatched his hands off of her like she was made of fire, stepping back as tears glossed over his eyes. He shook his head and choked on a heartbreaking gasp. “Sansa, forget that I was your king. I’m your brother!”

“Something had to be done! And I did what everyone else in our family was or would have been too stubborn, honorable, or afraid to do, Jon. If the North is to make it past this long winter, you know it _has_ to be united. For a moment, we all stood behind you, who accomplished what Robb never could. But, for better or worse, that fragile confidence shattered the moment you gave the North back to the realm.”

“Sansa, we needed…”

“Allies, yes. You’ve repeated as much several times by now. But _someone_ had to think further ahead than the army of the dead. I knew that when we lost Robett’s support just before the battle. But you wouldn’t listen to me, just like you wouldn’t heed my council when we fought against Ramsay.”

“Sansa, when Lord Tyrion sent his raven to Winterfell, it was _your_ council I valued.”

“And then you went south and fell in love. You all but forgot me and any council I might have provided when you bent the knee.”

“It doesn’t matter _what_ I say, does it?” he whispered. Tears fell down Jon’s face, momentarily disarming the lady’s focus. He regarded her like she was a stranger who’d slaughtered Ghost, his features twitching erratically and his chin trembling like he’d been outside in the cold for an hour. “Sansa, is this how it always will be? I understand the...desperation you must have felt back when Ramsay still drew breath. Littlefinger had an entire army, and you knew of his...affections. You were no longer the girl he thought he could continue to manipulate. But this time you...you actually betrayed me...after _everything_ we’ve been through together.”

“Jon, you have _no_ idea what I’ve felt and continue to feel to this day.” No words could salvage their fragile, profound relationship. Perhaps nothing ever could. Not in any length of time either had the luxury of possessing. Something, be it the dragon queen or what had to be done, would always stand between them. 

“I don’t understand you, and you don’t understand me. Huh? Is that what you want to hear, what you want to be true? You’re the only one of us keeping secrets and doing things behind my back!”

“Everything I do is for the family and the North, Jon.”

“That’s all Littlefinger, Sansa. None of it is you.”

“Perhaps, not. But it’s who I have to be if the pack is to survive.”

“What outcome would be worth this, Sansa?” Jon asked, wiping his face as he grimaced and itched his fingers over his heart over his leather armor.

“The one where none of us dies…”

Wiping his nose, her brother sniffed and regarded his queen as her features perfectly capturing the horror in her agape mouth and wide, wet eyes. Jon turned his back to her and rubbed both palms along the sides of his head, smoothing the wisps of curly hair from his half-bound style. “You don't protect anyone by doing exactly what our enemies would have done, Sansa,” he eventually said, grimacing before he glanced back to the lady. The scheme she’d orchestrated whilst everyone was too busy worrying about the army of the dead had, like the blade that had cut Catelyn Stark’s throat, severed much of the understanding between them. For once, it was Sansa who’d broken someone’s heart. Not that it felt any good or that she particularly liked it. “Have you lost all faith in what father stood for? He wouldn’t recognize you, Sansa. Not like this.”

“The Boltons betrayed our House, Jon. And many others either cowered in their shadow or followed their suit. Rickon was the last Stark to be taken from me. So long as I live, I will not stop protecting people in the only way a woman in my position can. I’m not like any of you. I have no dragons, no skill at the sword. No way to truly defend myself beyond the schemes I’ve learned how to twist from the shadows. So forgive me if I do not particularly regret what I have done to survive. But make _no_ mistake. I am _not_ Tywin or Cersei Lannister, Petyr Baelish, or a Bolton. Killing my enemies is wasteful, especially since I now know how to better utilize them in the name of honest peace. Lord Glover would have continued to be a problem for our family if given enough time to rally the other Northmen. You know he had to be brought into the fold, and _I_ did that. We are closer than ever before to a true unified North because of it. So, you cannot ask me to regret what had to be done, because I have the strength to endure the consequences when I can almost certainly guarantee that the future will not repeat.”

Jaime sighed from across the room with a dramatic, loud, and lengthy groan. Cursing under his breath, the one-eyed knights said, “Gods, you sound _exactly_ like my father when you say such things, Lady Stark…” When Brienne slapped the back of his head, he quite loudly yelped and rubbed the injured spot without looking behind him. “What?”

“You will not speak,” Ser Brienne ordered quietly, her voice polite yet firm.

The Starks ignored the small disruption. Instead, Jon shook his head, his mouth still hanging open as he wiped the tears away, and glanced to Arya. His brows dipped as his eyes narrowed. “Did you know about this?”

Gasping, the small girl drew her head back as she shifted her attention between her sister and brother. “We’re supposed to be talking about Cersei, not fighting amongst ourselves…”

Jon didn’t move closer to the younger Stark. Rather, clenched his fist and shouted, “Do you deny it, Arya?”

Arya made no hint of being affected by his outburst; however, she remained silent like she was trying to recompose herself for a moment longer than Sansa expected. “I didn’t know about it, Jon. But I wouldn’t have stopped her, either. Had she asked, I would have helped her in some way. So, you cannot stand there pretending she’s the only one who can betray you. You’re going to the heart of the lying lands soon.”

“So, you’re both his enemy now?” Daenerys quietly asked, rushing behind their brother and wrapping her arms around his stomach and gently shushing until he calmed down a little. Leaning her chin on Jon’s shoulder, the queen tilted her forehead to the back of his head and kissed him there. “I’m here, Jon…” the dragon queen whispered, cleverly asserting her presence in a way that could actually hurt the Lady of Winterfell. 

That the Red Wolf of Winterfell could not be afforded the privilege of her brother’s trust whereas this foreign invader could break the lady’s spirit. Sansa looked away, unable to stomach the crude circumstances of her own making for a moment. Theon stood closer to her now, and she was able to lift her chin up a bit so as not to give away the inner turmoil within her heart to the dragon queen any more than she already had. They would always compete, Lady Stark realized. If not for the North, then for her brother’s trust, respect, or maybe even love. But love, Sansa could tell, was the one thing of which Daenerys would never quite completely acquire. Jon was fiercely protective of Sansa, specifically. He’d seen her, the lifeless creature barely infused with much humanity, once she’d reached Castle Black. He’d been a huge reason why she’d been able to walk with a bit of color in her cheeks again, the reason she’d returned amongst the living. Betrayal, as he saw it, would complicate their bond: possibly beyond repair. However, he would never stop loving her. He was like their father in that right.

Lady Stark held Theon’s gaze, and they silently exchanged a quick understanding. When he nodded, he smiled a little, reminding her of watching Tyrion smirk in his bed just before he read to her that morning. “The only difference between _sister_ and _enemy_ is perception,” Sansa said, looking back to Jon and Daenerys.

“I’d argue that details often play a key role, too,” Daenerys retorted, jerking Jon back as he tried to move closer to Sansa. 

“Only when they actually matter.”

“You think the details aren’t the most important thing here?” Jon gently untangled himself from Daenerys’ arms and closed in on Sansa, shouldering Theon to move him out of his way. 

The lady’s eyes flashed to the Greyjoy, seeing his shoulders hunch forward and down in perfect unison with his tense, dipped jaw. Pale features pinching, Sansa quietly gasped and evaded her brother, so she could place her hands on Theon’s face. The man balked against her warm touch, but he eventually met her eyes, which instantly sharpened as he studied her expression. In a flash of a second, her ears began to ring and the room spun for just a moment while her head slogged, feeling heavy and slow all at once. Lady Stark tried in vain to whisper Theon’s name.

“Sansa?” the Ironborn muttered, instantly gripping her by the shoulders to help stabilize her a bit. 

“I’m fine, Theon…” Sansa insisted quickly, forgetting what it was she wanted to tell him. Swallowing, the lady ground her teeth together as her the dull pinch in her stomach transformed into a rush of hollow pain. None of her features nor any part of her perfect, stonelike posture gave away the sudden agony; however, a quiet groan from her abdomen betrayed her control. “I’m only tired,” she reluctantly added the longer he frowned at her.

“When did you eat last?” Theon whispered, brows flattening as his lips thinned.

“Yes…” she answered, noticing the odd quirk in his brows as he heard her nonsensical reply. Swallowing, Lady Stark cleared her throat, gripping both of his arms to help stabilize herself. Brienne’s heavy steps began stomping closer toward her, but the lady held out a hand at the incoming knight. “Today, Theon,” she corrected, anchoring her gaze in his even though the world was still fuzzy and indistinct. Even though she’d answered with enough conviction to, at a minimum, sound convincing, Sansa couldn’t remember the last meal she’d enjoyed. “And I’m fine, Brienne.”

“Lady Stark?” Tyrion said from across the room. 

“Sansa?” Jon called out as he got closer. He sounded desperate, worried. The ringing in her ears only grew louder, his rushing footsteps echoing and ricocheting everywhere until the lady winced from the unfortunate disturbance. The would-be bastard of Winterfell pried her away from Theon’s grasp, spinning her around until she gracelessly fumbled over the toe of one of her boots and fell against Jon’s shoulder; however, she righted herself as best as she could given the circumstances. Reaching for her cheeks, Jon held her until she felt solid enough on her own. Just like that, their verbal sparring had all been forgotten. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just tired, Jon…”

“We will reconvene in the morning, Sansa. Go and rest,” her brother ordered, not looking remotely tolerant of the refusal he clearly saw in her eyes.

“There’s no time for rest, Jon. Not tonight.”

“But…”

“Enough!” Sansa shouted, her echo ricocheting across the war room. “The sooner we finish up here, the quicker I can _go and rest_ ,” the lady argued, clearing her throat and stepping away from him until she stopped a pace or two away from Daenerys’ side. It was a deliberate move. If Sansa was to gain the dragon queen’s trust, Daenerys must first see the opportunity and benefits of even the possibility of friendship presented to her, a way in which to influence a young lady championing for her country’s independence. It likely wouldn’t happen naturally, so the Red Wolf seized control of the circumstances: even if it was at the expense of her very fractured relationship with her brother.

“Do you _hear_ yourself, Sansa? We’re not squabbling children anymore…” Jon shouted, quickly moving to Daenerys’ opposite side. The queen was, quite literally, thrown in the middle of their odious debate.

“Jon, my love,” Daenerys quietly said, reaching for his chest and splaying her delicate fingers on the leather of his armor there. Her brother didn’t even acknowledge his queen. “There will be time for us to discuss this further…”

“Children?” Sansa repeated, scoffing with a bitter chuckle. But the longer the word stuck in her thoughts, she held in her breath until she glanced over to Arya and shook her head. 

Bile festered low in her belly until it slowly burned its way up into her throat. There was an unspoken, hidden double standard between each of the Stark sisters. The dark-haired, boyish one had gallivanted across the world, slowly learning the secrets of how a girl who rejected her sex’s cultural norms can arm and protect herself. She’d always had less than proper skills growing up and had always been more physical than she’d ought to. Both their father and Jon had always treated her like someone who would be capable of taking care of herself. Yet, throughout Sansa’s journey, the lady who’d slowly learned how to shift the tides of the great game to survive was still perceived as a girl incapable of even the hope of protecting herself. It had been too long since Sansa Stark devoted too much time to look at her own reflection. Each plait, twist, and curl adorning her rather simplistic hairstyles every day had been accomplished only by habit and skill. 

The pale reflection she actively avoided caught her in a tortured cycle, blending the past with the present. Her likeness reminded her of the woman Petyr loved first, a mother she could no longer recognize in her memory. Although she’d survived her husband’s cruelty, the one thing Sansa treasured as a child had become the one thing she no longer knew how to leverage. But it wasn’t like she required it as of late. Not when her mind had become the shrouded, secret weapon with which she’d learned to strike her enemies from the shadows. Their enemies had forged her mind, but, much to Jon’s horror, it was Sansa who’d sharpened it for battle. It was the one thing Ramsay never took from her, and the one thing he’d never have. But for Jon to admit that her signature subterfuge and grace in the game existed would also mean he’d have to concede that all the horrors he tried to pretend did, too. She would always be the woman he could not save. 

Once, in a brief moment right after they’d reclaimed Winterfell, Sansa had overheard Tormund and Jon speaking in the great hall as they shared a somber drink. Together, they reminisced of all whom they’d lost. Neither uttered a name, but the Wildling mentioned that the lady reminded him of a rather ambiguous _her_. Her brother stormed out of the room, but not before Sansa stepped back in the shadows to avoid being caught that night. And she recalled realizing something she probably never should have known. The once Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch had lost someone who looked like his copper-haired, pale-eyed sister. Every question, spoken and secret, ever to have crossed her mind made sense now as the answers fell into place. Everything he did was to ensure the lady remained safe now that he had a small say on the matter. Though, she supposed, those days would be over once he flew back south.

“I’m always a ghost…” Sansa whispered, ensnaring Jon and his dragon queen’s undivided attention. “When people look at me, I’m never just Sansa. They only see someone else in me.”

Jon narrowed his eyes as his features relaxed. She couldn’t be completely sure, but the lady believed he knew what she’d only now deduced about the mystery woman from beyond the Wall. He didn’t have to know she’d heard a small thing about her. And she’d never ask him of her, either. All that mattered to her was that he _knew_ she understood why he treated her so differently than Arya...and even Daenerys. Swallowing, he stared at his sister as his chest heaved. Tears sparkled in his eyes as the fire’s glow resonated in his dark gaze. “We’re gettin’ off track…” Jon struggled to say.

The room remained silent for a moment before the queen’s throat clearing ripped away the building, awkward tension. “May I ask if Jon can read Cersei’s letter aloud, so we’re all aware of what’s happened?” Daenerys asked.

Lady Sansa eventually nodded, reaching into her cloak pocket and procuring the bundle of raven scrolls. Hesitantly, she dropped them into her brother’s open hand. “The big scroll is Cersei’s…”

“We will read them all, Lady Stark,” the dragon queen replied. Her voice sounded more serene and gentle than the lady could ever recall. 

Meeting her gaze, Sansa nodded, swallowing and dropping her stare back to the broken Stepstone islands between Westeros and Essos. “Of course, Your Grace,” Lady Stark said, knowing her brother wouldn’t stomach the crude words regarding his helpless, proper sister. The words tickled her brain until they pinched each nerve of her memory. Sparking a sequence of sputtering heartbeats, they made her throat go dry. She cleared her throat as she waited for her brother to begin. 

Fumbling with the largest scroll, Jon sighed. “Little Dove,” he began, his voice sounding rather tired and on edge all at once. “You refused my invitation to King’s Landing. Jaime is likely dead already. If he is not, he is, at the very least, dead to me. And as for Tyrion…” Jon muttered, pausing to quietly scan the next few sentences. Lifting his head to view the dwarf, he shook his head as he regarded the queen’s Hand for a few long seconds. Eventually, he continued, “I have big plans for that murdering, drunken whoremonger. We were sisters when you helped kill my son, your king. Seeing that House Lannister has been ripped to shreds, you leave me with little choice. You’ve deprived your rightful queen of adorning my sharpest spike with your traitorous head for years.”

The Lady of Winterfell released a breath she’d held, impatiently circling her hand in the air between them and saying, “Get on with it…”

“Sansa, _you_ read this?”

“Yes, aloud for most of the people present in this room to hear.”

“But it says…”

“Cunt, yes I know.” Shaking her head, the lady rolled her eyes and sighed. Daenerys snapped her stare from the parchment back to Lady Sansa, who ignored her for the moment. “The subject of my virtue can wait, Jon. Continue,” she ordered.

“Sansa, that’s hardly appropriate,” Jon fought.

A loud groan ripped the two siblings’ attention away. Arya moved closer to Sansa, maintaining an acceptable distance by stopping where Theon stood with Yara halfway down the long table. The sea queen crossed her arms over her chest and growled. “Quit stalling. Lady Sansa told you to get on with it. There’s a pretty brunette down at the brothel waiting for me...”

Swallowing, the rightful prince of the Seven Kingdoms glared at the Ironborn queen until he scanned the paper to find his place. “You have nowhere left to run, so meet me at White Harbor. Since Tyrion preferred the company of whores to your cunt I come with a gift, come and—” he muttered. Freezing, he balled his hands into fists, crinkling the thick parchment. Tossing the letters onto the table before him, Jon stalked toward a nearby chair. Grabbing both sides of the high backrest, her brother slammed it against the wall. Pieces of wood and metal scattered as most of the others in the room winced. After a while, Jon steadied his wild breathing long enough to ask with his back turned to the others, “I don’t understand...Sansa, how does she know _those_ words?”

Lady Stark shook her head as Daenerys reached for Cersei’s letter. Before the dragon queen could continue where her brother had left off, Sansa joined her hands behind her back and lifted her chin even though her gaze remained firmly planted on Dorne’s southernmost landscape. The lady cut the queen off, saying, “I hope you enjoy Mountains, dear sister. He so looks forward to ripping you apart where Tyrion never wanted you and where I’m sure Ramsay sent his hounds when he was bored of your charming scraps.”

To her side, she heard Tyrion shift in his rolling chair and Daenerys catch her breath as she likely read along with the lady. The dragon queen covered her mouth with one of her hands, saying, “She’s vile.”

“Come and see...Whore of Winterfell, I will keep the Imp alive long enough for him to see the Mountain rip off your legs and arms, one-by-one. Come and see...He will watch as the Mountain fucks your corpse until your pretty body is as unrecognizable as Robb Stark’s was, come and see.”

Arya rushed toward Sansa, but Theon caught her wrist. However, it was easy for the younger Stark sister to slip past his tight grasp. When the lady regarded her younger sister, she took note of the girl’s bobbing throat and distinct grimace. Rather quickly, the hero of Winterfell clutched her hand along the delicate curve of Sansa’s dainty arm. “Enough, Sansa. You don’t have to continue…”

Lady Sansa shook, glaring down at her sister as thick beads of tears burned the edges of her pale eyes. Doing nothing to stop them from falling, the lady touched Arya’s warm hand and gently shoved it away from her. Several of her tears slipped down to the curve of her chin until they fell to the stone floor between them. “You were the last of us to see Robb. What did he look like after the Freys had their way with him? You didn’t look away, did you?”

Arya shook beside Lady Stark, stepping back once as she caught her next breath and rubbed her stomach like it ached. Slowly, her sister began to cry as well. “They severed his head and mounted Grey Wind’s head atop his body with several thin spikes. ‘Here comes the king in the North,’ they all shouted as the Hound turned our horse around.”

The Stark sisters exchanged private thoughts as they sustained the sad stares for a moment longer. It only took a few seconds for the skilled assassin to understand. Sansa wiped away her tears and looked to the dragon queen. “And when he is done with you, he’ll toss a silver on your mangled body. I ask you to read the rest privately. Your Hand’s private business is of no consequence to some here in the room, Your Grace.”

The glossy violet hue of Daenerys’ gaze caught the glint of the blazing fire across the oblong war room as she met Sansa’s stare. She nodded and folded the parchment. Clearing her throat, the dragon queen murmured, “Then I shall read the rest in private.”

“Littlefinger sent her Ramsay’s scroll to Castle Black at some point. That’s what is referenced, Your Grace.”

“Would you permit me to borrow all three, so that Ser Jorah may review them with me and those of my council still present here at Winterfell?”

“Of course, Your Grace…” Sansa answered, watching as the queen folded the scrolls and handed them to Jorah. 

“You can’t let her obliterate White Harbor, Sansa!” Jon shouted, rejoining the group at his queen’s side. His voice echoed across each crevice of the room, reverberating until silence drowned out the noise. “Winterfell is in no state to accommodate what’s left of the North’s population. If we lose it, our people would starve.”

“No,” Daenerys whispered, reaching for Jon’s arm. He checked over his shoulder to meet her tender gaze. While they glanced at each other, her brother’s jittery posture calmed a little. “Once I take back the iron throne, we will ensure the North has enough food to feed the heroes of Westeros. It’s the very least we can do for them, seeing how bravely they fought against the army of the dead alongside mine. The capital will _not_ abandon the North.”

If Sansa hadn’t been at the center of most of the people in the room’s attention, a smirk similar to the irksome one Petyr always did when he thought she wasn’t paying attention would have lifted at the corner of her mouth. 

“Daenerys,” Jon murmured, clasping his hand atop of hers on his arm. They shared a fragile, brief smile while the dragon queen touched her stomach again. The white, braided hair resonated an ethereal glow as the flickering, snapping fire in the hearth highlighted her features. It was easy to sympathize with most of the men simpering at her feet. The dragon queen really was beautiful.

Lady Stark narrowed her eyes. “You’re pregnant.”

The queen’s sharp gasp stole her gaze from Jon’s. The Targaryen invader dropped her hand from her belly rather hastily, her expression sharpening against a few fractured twitches at her mouth, eyes, and forehead that broke the fierceness she tried to assume. “I-I am,” she said, gaze flickering up to Jon before a weak grin pried her mouth up. “I don’t know how it’s possible for me, but I am.”

“Your Grace, I propose we pause the matters we discussed prior to your leave last. I’m not entirely aware of your circumstances, but stress isn’t good if you’re to keep your child healthy.”

“Stress is inevitable given that I am the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“You’re surrounded by quite capable advisors on your council, Your Grace. I suggest you learn to leverage their strengths to your advantage before the news reaches Cersei. She’s already made an attempt on my life while we were all hyper-focused on the army of the dead. ”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes as she, ever so slightly, shook her head. It was as if she’d woken from a dream, slowly snapping back to the cruel woes of reality. “Forgive me, Lady Stark, but just weeks ago you demanded a rather unforgivable list of things...including the North’s independence. Does this sudden change of heart have anything to do with your deteriorated state?”

Sansa drew her head back, knitting her brows as she pursed her lips and pushed them to one side. A small uptick at the corner of her mouth softened her expression. “I haven’t slept much in six days.”

“Why? What else have you learned that might inspire a fraction of such disrepair to your usually impenetrable guard?”

“It’s not something I learned, Your Grace. It’s a...symptom.”

Daenerys stepped away from Jon, reaching for the lady’s forearm as her brows flattened and mouth parted. The violet hue of the dragon queen’s stare and the gentle weight of her touch made Sansa’s throat itch. “Are you ill, Lady Stark?”

“No.” Sansa straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, looking down her nose at the petite, silver-haired foreign queen. Swallowing, the lady cleared her throat, stepping away as her attention dropped to Daenerys’ belly. Only when the dragon queen withdrew her hand away from Lady Stark did she begin to speak. “If I still listened or prayed to the gods, I’m sure this particular symptom may perhaps also be called retribution.”

The queen turned, sharing a concerned look with Jon before dropping her eyes down to Tyrion, who simply shrugged. When she glanced back at the lady, her eyes were thin and her mouth tight. “Retribution? For what, exactly, would _you_ be punished?”

Tears formed in the lady’s eyes, and she didn’t stop them from falling down her face until they tangled at the tip of her chin and dropped down toward the floor. 

“Your child, while Targaryen in blood and name, will also be a Stark, Your Grace. I’ve come to appreciate what little family my House has left. Death, as we all are quite aware, is rather final. While life in its own right is easily breakable, the most fragile thing in this world is family. When Tywin Lannister consorted with the Freys against my family, he made one fatal mistake. He let me live to marry his son and allowed locating my siblings to slip further down his priority list. His children’s roles in the life he’d constructed, especially _after_ Joffrey choked on the poison, always occupied the bulk of his attention. That was his weakness, Daenerys. And yet no one ever exploited it. Not until Petyr whisked me away right under his nose.”

“What does the dead father of my Hand and his enemy sister have to do with _your_ supposed retribution?”

“When I was a girl, I dreamed of kind eyes so much that that lie fused in the wayward stares of those caught in reality. When they took my father’s head, I was always caught in an in-between, barely aware of the great game, and yet still lost in the idea of a distant dream to drown out my sorrows. Petyr Baelish saw this when no one else would. I’m no fool. I think at first he saw me only as his golden opportunity to potentially be with my mother, though I’m sure he knew of the likelihood of her rejection. I know that in some way he loved her. And I resembled her too much for him to ignore me for too long. He tried to take me away from King’s Landing before I was married off to Lord Tyrion.”

Daenerys’ brows drew down toward her nose. “And why didn’t you take his offer? I imagine that if I was a stranded girl trapped in King’s Landing, I’d do or accept any help if it meant I could leave. Or was it the possibility of safety that a marriage to my Hand could offer that kept you from leaving?”

The corner of Sansa’s mouth lifted slightly as she sharpened her eyes, narrowing her lids so minimally, the lady doubted the dragon queen could notice any significant changes. “I _was_ desperate to receive any hint of safety. And because I’d flowered, I knew marriage was likely the best and only refuge for a naive, stupid girl like me. I was known as a traitor’s daughter at that time, so you can imagine that, even as a girl with what I’d been so often told of great beauty, my prospects were almost nonexistent after Joffrey thankfully cast me aside for Margaery Tyrell. That day, I’d smiled for the first time since they stole my father. With everyone enamored by their new, better bride, no one noticed Littlefinger spoiling me with just a drop of what I thought was empathy. He and your Hand were among the few people at the capital to pity me.”

“Lady Stark,” Jorah interrupted, stepping around his queen to be closer to the lady and reaching for her arm, which she evaded by moving backward a step. He froze, holding out both of his empty hands in front of him, sighing. “Forgive me for sounding unsympathetic to your history, but our queen asked you how Tywin Lannister was related to your punishment.”

“Step back, Ser Jorah. The Lady of Winterfell does not know you as I do. She will finish her peace without interruption,” Daenerys ordered. The old knight swallowed, quickly fading back behind his queen. “Apologies, Lady Sansa. I am most intrigued by whatever you wish to share with me. We were unable to get better acquainted before the battle. Then we flew south after your attack. Please continue…” she added, her features serene even though her eyes unveiled her impatience. Prior to arriving here at the war council room, Jon had spoken to her. He must have asked something of her. The lady had never seen the dragon queen so well composed.

“Cersei sails for the North as we speak, Your Grace. Are you sure we have the time for all of this?”

“Lady Stark, if we don’t make the time for this, I’m afraid that we’d eventually fall into a similar fragile tension that sparked the War of the Five Kings. Before we left Winterfell, Tyrion reminded me of my real purpose in all this. I am meant to break the wheel that has crushed those on the ground for far too long. I didn’t listen to him, then. But things have changed. I will not lose _this_ child. I imagine I will require any help I can acquire to ensure my child’s protection. And as you’ve said, our child is not only a Targaryen.”

The longer the queen talked, the more echoey her voice sounded. More distant than the short distance between them ought to. The ringing in her ears returned. Twitching her brows as a poor attempt to concentrate, Sansa once again held her breath as her vision once again blurred. All feeling in her legs faded as quickly as water trickled down her body in the bath. Swallowing, the lady gasped and locked her gaze onto the flickering fire, its colors brightening and texture smoothing as everything but the embers fell to black around it. Someone caught her as her knees gave out, holding her and shouting something as the last remnants of the orange glow fell away.


End file.
